


Red Caps

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, Investigations, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Romance, Violence, detection work, gory dream sequence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh of finishing his Special Investigation Branch training, Corporal Merlin Emrys gets his transfer to the Lisburn based 174 Provost Company. No sooner has he settled in, than a training accident occurs. Merlin is tasked with joining Sergeant Arthur Pendragon in an investigation that hits a little too closely to home and changes his outlook on himself and his new colleague.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [texasislandr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/texasislandr/gifts).



> My thanks go to the lovely Detochkina for the swift and painstaking beta. They also go to Texasfandoodler for doing gorgeous, vibrant art, and for being an absolute sweetheart. This wouldn't quite exist without her enthusiasm. Doing a collab with you was truly an honour and fun from start to finish. Much love and many hugs. :)
> 
> This was inspired by and is loosely based on the first episodes of the BBC series Red Cap, which aired in the early 2000s.
> 
> If you want to have a proper look at Texasfandoodler's gorgeous artwork solo, you can go [Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3431279). She deserves a lot of love, imo!

Ross Line Detachment, Lisburn Base, Northern Ireland.

 

Merlin puts down his rucksack, stretches his shoulders, and observes the tidy barracks sprawl that is Lisburn base. Three-story structures washed in grey dot the plaza at regular intervals, one similar to the other, none of them sticking out of their solemn governmental mould. It's not a sight Merlin hasn't seen before; nevertheless, when he takes it in, he feels a low buzz of excitement thrum through him.

A new phase of his life begins here and now.

The two RMPs guarding the entrance to the building he seeks salute him when they see him. “Sir,” they say, in almost perfect unison.

Merlin salutes back. “I'm looking for Sergeant Major Kernow's office, lads.”

“It's on the second floor, second door,” one of the RMPs answers.

“Thank you, Private.” Merlin smiles. “That's going to be easy to remember.”

A set of squat stairs leads him to the desired floor. The office area is teeming with personnel, both in plain clothes and camo gear, bustling to and fro between the desk areas.

Merlin doesn't need to knock on the door marked “Smjr Tristan Kernow”, because a tall Lance Corporal is getting out of it, her pale hair sticking out in wisps from under her red cap, a pile of folders under her arm.

She sees him, smiles brightly, and opens the door wider for him.

“Thank you,” he mimes.

“You're welcome,” she says, returning the smile with a warm one of her own.

However, already facing the Sergeant Major, Merlin can't say anything else. The Sergeant Major is sitting behind his desk. His expression appears somewhat stormy, probably because of the fire in his eyes and the lines drawn around his mouth. He doesn't look as massive as Merlin's former superiors were, not as constitutionally gigantic as some Regimental Sergeants are. He's of light build instead, blond, his face etched with wrinkles that Merlin guesses have been put there by worry as well as middle age. He still looks like someone you don't want to fuck with.

“Corporal?” Kernow says, looking only mildly interested in him.

Merlin salutes his best salute, spine erect, his head tipped back. “Corporal Emrys, reporting for duty.”

“Ah,” Kernow says, picking up a file from a stack that lies to the left of his elbow. Merlin believes it to be his. “You're the one Colonel Keithley recommended.”

“I wouldn't know about that, sir.” Merlin isn't supposed to know about the kind of communication that passes among his bosses, but he's okay with finding out about this. While Colonel Keithley gave him a hard time, he seemed to have done his best for Merlin behind the scenes. And that's... uplifting. “I only know that I applied for a position as an SIB detective and that Keithley supported the scheme...”

“He says you did well during your one year attachment to his team.”

“I loved working cases with his people, sir.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Kernow says, turning the pages of Merlin's file. “You finished your training with a high score, passed all the tests with flying colours.”

“I was happy with the results, sir.” Merlin shifts in place, hands behind his back.

“You should be.” Kernow eyes him like a hawk and Merlin's sure he's testing him “Your evals are good, and Keithley would have taken you on if he had a spot on his team.”

“The Colonel and I...” Merlin hesitates in defining the relationship he had with his former boss. “Got along.”

“Well, you got your transfer by way of his glowing reviews,” Kernow says, closing Merlin's file and sinking back into his chair. “But you do have a rather colourful past. So I'm not taking you off the merit board until I'm positive you can do the job.”

Merlin's heart beats out of synch for a second or two. It's a painful motion that pushes it against his ribs. Before he can sink into that particular brand of ache, one he knows well, he voids his mind of thought so no memories can surface. “That's in the past, sir.” He dares slide his gaze on the man. “And I mean it to stay there.”

“I believe you.” The Sergeant Major's eyes gentle. He throws a look at one of the pictures on his desk. Merlin can't see what he's staring at since the frame's turned the other way around, but whatever it is that keeps that kind of warm light burning in Kernow's eyes, it must be a meaningful sight. “That's why you're here.”

“So I do have a chance of making detective?”

“Yes.” He nods briskly.

“But I won't get my Sergeant stripe?”

“I'll confirm your attachment to our unit together with your promotion once I've seen you in action, Emrys.”

“Sir.”

“You need to prove your mettle to me, Corporal.” The Sergeant Major's eyebrow rises towards his hairline.

Merlin clacks his boots together. “Yes, sir.”

“That's settled then.”

With a brisk motion, Sergeant Major Kernow pushes to his feet, sending his chair careening backwards, marches past him, flings the door open and crosses into the waiting area outside his office. He claps his hands together and gets the attention of everyone on the floor. “All right, people, this is Corporal Emrys,” he says, pointing at Merlin, who's just made it out of Kernow's lair. “He's going to join our team. I want you all to welcome him and show him the ropes.”

The blonde from before—her name tag says she's Cpl Gawant—waves her hands and says, “Oh, I'm so glad you're on our team. You give off good vibes.”

One of the plain clothes blokes leans away from the desk he was resting against and shakes Merlin's hand. “Daegal Hegney.”

A second one raises his hand in a wave. “Sergeant Elyan Smith.”

“Hi.” Merlin puts on his best friendly smile. “Pleasure.”

“Sergeant Percival Blake,” a tall, solidly-built man in a crumpled suit that's bursting at the seams in his biceps area says. “Welcome on board, Merlin.”

“Sir, our team works perfectly well the way it does,” a blond man in his early thirties, all sharp jaw and blue eyes, says. He talks like a cadet out of Sandhurst, all drawled tones and careful enunciation, rather than like a career NCO. Though an NCO he must be. His suit, a woollen ensemble starched to perfection, looks trimmer and finer than the one the Sergeant Major's wearing. “We don't need new recruits.”

It takes some effort for Merlin to keep his face in check, not to let it fall. He's been in the military long enough to know that he can't let himself be affected by the bad opinion of one lone teammate. He understands he must move past the disapproval and do the best job he can. That should get the enmity sorted in due time, and if not... Well, you can't charm everyone. Still, there's something about knowing he's unwelcome, about failing to meet this man's expectations, that does jar with him, sitting in discomfort at the mouth of his stomach. It's almost as if this new colleague of his knows, though of course he can't, that Merlin isn't like most soldiers here.

Merlin grimaces and tries on a grin for size.“Now that's what I call a nice and warm welcome.”

The others laugh.

Zero Welcome Guy fastens his gaze back on to him, with a near double take effect. His eyes widen a little, turning darker, and pierce him like a bullet.

“Sergeant Pendragon,” the Sergeant Major says. “Thank you for your input on this matter. Your reluctance has been duly noted. But you'll have to work with Corporal Emrys until further notice. Any objection?”

“No, sir.” Sergeant Pendragon straightens, tearing his gaze from Merlin with some reluctance, as though, Merlin thinks, he wants to pillory him on it. “None at all.”

“Good,” says the Sergeant Major. “In which case I think we're all agreed.”

There's a chorus of consensus, the loudest at expressing her approval being Corporal Gawant.

“Sir,” a private working at one of the desks at the further end of the room says. “I have Private Maccance of the 5th Cumberlands on the line. He's the platoon handler, sir.”

“Is there a point to this story, Private?”Sergeant Major Kernow asks.

“Erm, yes sir,” the Private says with waning confidence. “He says something's wrong with their wolfhound?”

“Right.” The Sergeant Major turns to Merlin. “The case is all yours, Emrys.”

Merlin can't help the surprised sound he lets out. “I'm to deal with a wolfhound, sir?”

Sergeant Kernow throws his hands up in the air. “What's today? Sedition day, is that it?”

“No, sir,” Merlin says, holding himself ramrod straight.

“Then get on with it!”

“Sir!”

Before leaving Ross Line, Merlin sees Sergeant Pendragon hide a smirk behind his palm.

 

**** 

 

The lorry jiggles, its engine emitting a low, steady rumble as it navigates the road. It jolts them forwards and they cling to their rifles, brace their feet wide. Everybody laughs but Mckenna, who's car sick, has always been, and will never not be. Geraint gives a thought to riling him, but he's not in the mood today. It will have to wait for another day. Today he doesn't have the time to spare for nonsense like that. Tonight he gets leave—three whole days. Tonight he gets to hit the town. Hell, he'll drive all the way to Belfast, have a drink or three, chat up all the women willing to listen. God, he longs for a woman. Eira isn't going to be best pleased, then again she can go screw herself. She said she was done; she'd better accept that means he's one hundred percent free.

Buoyed by that thought, he joins the others in the ruckus. He thumps the soles of his boots on the floor, shouts to the driver, a newb squaddie from logistics, to avoid the bloody potholes. Christ, when he was in logistics himself, he did better than this, minus that one time.

The others chime in too; all but Mckenna, who's too busy breathing in and out so he won't puke, and Mordred, whose lips are sealed together. But then he's always like that. Always so bloody serious. Except no, not today. Today it seems some of the ice has melted. He leans over, smiles at Riley, says something to him. Riley bobs his head in an expressive nod, laughing loud enough to drown out the sound of the engine.

Good for him.

They exit the motorway. When they start climbing the hills leading to the training range, the lorry raises dust and sand. A “Restricted Area” sign flashes past. Metal gates topped by barbed wire slide open and the lorry rumbles past them. It comes to a sudden grinding halt and nearly half the platoon are thrown off their seats.

Aglain appears at the back. He lowers the vehicle's ramp onto the ground and Geraint and his comrades jump out.

They join the other participants who were on other lorries. When they're all gathered round him, Aglain starts instructing them as to the aim of today's exercise. Geraint doesn't tune in for the preamble, because that's the usual _blah blah blah_ that all commanding officers spew, and only listens in when their lieutenant describes today's specific mission objective. It always pays to listen to those. If he's the best, he can make Lance Corporal sooner than his mates. And wouldn't that be satisfying.

Aglain splays a tactical map on the bonnet of the Jeep he's leaning against and says, “Your mission today is to take Covert Hill. He points to a spot on the chart. “There's a bunch of T-55 right over there. Five C-6 machine guns and a Gustav are located here. You must take control of them and of the T-55s. You'll use them to neutralise the tanks. Once you have them surrounded, you will then proceed to take the ridge here, and with it, Covert Hill.” He thumps his finger at the spot. “Any questions?”

“No, sir,” the platoon answers in one body.

At 10:17 Base radioes the all clear and Aglain signals for the exercise to begin.

Geraint's platoon takes position. They start behind trench lines and gain ground progressively, working their way from under coils of barbed wire and over rough terrain mimicking that of many fields of action. In turns, Geraint crawls and runs like the others, rifle held over his head or in his hands, and pushes forward when their lieutenant gives the order.

By Midday, Geraint's team has come close to completing the drill. They have taken out the pop-up targets and isolated the tank, and are lying low along the lip of a gulley the slope to Covert Hill terminates at. 

Mordred and Riley are crouching at the outer side of it, with Aglain behind them and Lamorak beside him. Bedivere and Doyle are positioned to the south of them and have control of the C-6 machine gun. To the north are Morien, and Erec with Mckenna at the far end of the line.

Tracers are fired every minute, and shine bright in the sky, illuminating the soldiers. Aglain stands, checking over the range.

Geraint knows that now's the moment. The coast's clear and if he's to be the first on that hill he can't wait for Aglain's order. He dallies a second, two, sees that the Lieutenant is still waiting to signal them forwards. He realises that will only slow the action, so he sprints. The order comes on the heels of his taking the initiative,

Which proves he was right. But then, his instincts often are. If only his superiors would see it. Then he'd have his dues and his career would be set. He shouldn't be thinking of that now. He should focus on today's exercise, so he can prove he's the best of the bunch. He pumps his legs and arms, lets them take him uphill. As he labours upwards, trading on the momentum his speed gives him, his breathing increases. He pants, coerces his muscles into obedience, each step firmer than the last, each taking him closer to the objective.

His lungs go smaller in his chest, in an ever-tightening cinch, but he can keep it up a little longer. Definitely for as long as it takes to get to the top of the ridge.

When he's almost there, he looks back over his shoulder. The closest to him are Riley and Mordred. A bit behind them are Bedivere and Mckenna. Oh no, he's not letting this be taken from him. Geraint presses himself harder, works his legs to a faster pace, gaining on his comrades.

He's almost there when he feels the punch. It cuts the air in his lungs, slows him down. He pistons his legs forward but they give. Then pain comes. It blasts through him like a shock. It lights his chest on fire and turns his stomach.

Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.

He reels at the realisation, his breath coming out in noisy wheezes. He blinks at the sky. It's blue, cloudless, no traces of haze. Wonders how it is he's gazing at it. He swallows. Doing that hurts. He blinks again. Thunder-shots go off, bright, green and yellow. There's a pattern in the explosions, like fireworks, but then again thunder-shots never do that, so perhaps he's seeing things. Must be.

Pain throbs through him, reverberating from his torso through to his bones. Sweat stands out on his forehead. It's cold, even colder than his skin.

Panic tightens Geraint's lungs.

Then he hears the voice of his commander. "Zero, this is One,” Aglain says. “We have a man down. Repeat we have a man down.”

“One, this is Zero," the radio says, "terminate exercise and disengage. We're sending help.”

"Copy," Aglain says, "terminating field exercise.”

Geraint realises, with a stab of cold fear, that he's the downed man.

 

**** 

 

Merlin kneels and studies the empty kennel. It's clean and well kept, two bowls, one blue, one red, are wedged in the corner. One is still half full of water, the other has been rinsed of whatever food was in it. Since there's nothing else to see, Merlin straightens. He turns around and addresses Private Maccance, “And you did remember to close the gate?”

The Private goes rigid and tips his head up. “I did, sir.”

Merlin searches Private Maccance's face. He's looking up and to the side, but his gaze is clear and doesn't falter. He doesn't blink either. And though his expression's rather stony, Merlin thinks it's more the normal soldier's at attention pose than an attempt at deflecting. “And you're positive?”

“Yes, sir,” Private Maccance says. “I did. I latched it. I do the same thing every night. Check the premises, check the kennels, make sure Lady and Amfortas are fine. I don't go back to barracks unless I've done that.”

“And Amfortas was there last night?” Merlin asks, making sure his lips don't twitch and that he sounds appropriately serious.

“Yes, sir,” Private Maccance tells him. “He was sprawling right there.” The Private's gaze slides some place behind Merlin. “He even wagged his tail when he saw me. He was fine, sir.”

“Right.” Merlin checks the padlock. There are some scratches around the keyhole, but he's no expert and can't tell whether it's been tampered with or not. “I'll take this,” he says, pocketing the padlock.

“Sir.” Private Maccance stares at Merlin's pocket. “Do you think Amfortas has been kidnapped?”

“Kidnapped?” Merlin repeats, not quite sure he follows.

“Yes,” Private Maccance says, looking at him out of big eyes. “For ransom.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow.

“Well, having a regimental mascot is an honour, sir.”

“I am sure,” Merlin says, running a finger around the collar of his uniform shirt.

“I'm certain that the lads from the Cumberlands would unofficially pay any sum”—Private Maccance tilts his head—“nearly any sum to have Amfortas back.”

“Right,” Merlin says. “I'll take that into account in my invest—”

A Jeep comes screeching down the road. Percival Black leans out the window as the car slows down. “Oi, Merlin,” he calls, killing the engine. “Jump on, Kernow wants you.”

“What's up?” says Merlin, walking over to the vehicle.

“Range accident,” Percival tells him. “Squaddie got shot.”

Merlin opens the Jeep's door. “So what, Kernow wants me on a serious case now?”

Percival shrugs. “I don't know. He just told me to get you.”

Merlin is hoisting himself into the Jeep when Private Maccance comes up and says, “What about Amfortas, sir?”

“We'll find him,” Merlin says, settling into his seat and fastening his seat belt. “No worries, Private.”

Before Maccance can say 'sir' again, Percival has driven off to a screech of tires.

The motorway comes fast at them and Merlin's sure they're breaking quite a few regulations here, but he's also positive there's a reason for that, so he doesn't say anything.

As they come onto the range, the Jeep negotiates over bumps and holes, steers clear of tank targets and lines of barbed wire. When they reach the site of the accident, Percival swerves and turns off the engine. Merlin's jostled forward. He doesn't comment on the whiplash effect but leaps out of the Jeep in Percival's wake.

“Corporal Percival Black,” Percival says to the Lieutenant in camo gear striding towards them, “Corporal Emrys. What's going on, sir?”

“Aglain. Dorset Light Infantry.” The officer pats his chest. “We had a shooting. Looks accidental. The Victim is Private Geraint Jodrey.”

“Who commands the platoon?” Merlin asks, as they move towards the site of the accident.

“I do.” Aglain scrunches his face up. “The man who shot Jodrey, Private Riley, is under guard.”

“Um, perhaps, we should see to Jodrey first, sir,” says Merlin, kneeling by the wounded man.

Private Jodrey's grey in the face, locking his jaw as if that's the only way for him to stop his teeth from chattering. A thermal blanket covers him from mid chest to feet. Blood stains the top and side of his UCP uniform and spreads in dark, quickly widening patches on the fabric. So much blood.

“Everything's going to be all right,” Merlin says, touching the Private's hand. It's cold and clammy. “Promise.”

“I,” Jodrey says. “I don't know what...”

“Hold tight,” Merlin says, giving him the most encouraging smile he can muster, though his lungs go small. “We'll sort you out.” He angles his face at Aglain. “Has hospital transport been organised, sir?”

“Yes.” Aglain nods, a grimace of worry crossing his features. “We called ambulance services. A chopper's getting here.”

“Any minute now,” Merlin tells Jodrey, squeezing his hand. For a moment, he doesn't see Jodrey's face; his features morph and Merlin sees _him_. It doesn't last, so Merlin shakes himself and adds, “Any minute, Private.”

As Merlin makes to push to his feet, Jodrey grabs his hand. “Please, don't go, sir.”

Merlin nods. “I won't.”

 

Jodrey puts pressure on his hand and Merlin's throat clogs. He watches the blood spurt from the wound; he watches the Private's face pale as this happens. He tries to say consolatory things but has no idea what words would cut it in the circumstances. So he plasters on a smile and talks near nonsense to the wounded soldier. He doesn't know what he says. It's not as if he's thinking about making sense. He just prattles and prattles.

Merlin stays till the Health Care assistants arrive. Once Jodrey is on a gurney, Merlin's shoulders slump. He hadn't expected that something would remind him so keenly of his past, would stab him in the heart as this has. He'd been so sure nothing would at this point. He's made it through two tours and coped just fine. He supposes the brain toys with people like that. He just mustn't let it. He must think of what's happened here today, not what went on years ago now.

This whole accident is after all going to leave a mark. Jodrey is in a bad way. His comrades are going to be affected by what they saw go down as is their commanding officer, whose career, whatever his track record, is going to take a hit. The upper levels of the military are going to get involved, and, depending what happens next, journos will be at their heels.

Merlin can't mull over this too long, however, because Kernow and Pendragon arrive. The Sergeant Major looks royally pissed off, his face drawn and hollowed. Pendragon strides forward alongside him, face giving off nothing but an aura of grim professionalism.

When they reach Merlin and Percival, the Sergeant Major says, “Corporal Emrys, a recap of the situation, please.”

Merlin and Percival both salute, then Merlin starts, “Private Jodrey has been taken to hospital, Sir. I haven't spoken to Private Riley yet.” When the Sergeant Major gives him a blank face, Merlin says. “That's the soldier who shot Jodrey, sir.”

“Well, get to it then,” the Sergeant Major tells him. “Pendragon, join him for the questioning.”

“Sir, he's new.” Pendragon steps forwards. “I'm not even sure he knows the protocol—”

“Pendragon,” says Kernow. “I'm really at the end of my tether today.”

Pendragon sighs. “Just follow my lead,” he tells Merlin before stalking towards the accident site.

 

  


  
[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/texasfandoodler/70429176/90485/90485_600.jpg)

 

They find Private Ranulf Riley sitting in the back of a Jeep between two RMPs. 

When he sees them, the lad jumps upright, his legs trembling under him. “How's Jod, sir?”

Sergeant Pendragon shakes his head, looking at Merlin.

Merlin tells Riley, “He's being flown to hospital.”

Riley sways on his feet and goes white in the face, plonks back down. “Shit, I didn't mean to, sir. I swear. I really didn't want to do him any harm. Shit, God, shit.”

Sergeant Pendragon raises an eyebrow at Merlin, then addresses the Private. “All right, Private, can you tell us what happened?”

Riley's eyes start searching the ground as if he's looking for the answer there, sniffs loudly. “I was running together with the others. We had to...” He lifts red eyes to Merlin. “We had to take the ridge...” He points with his chin at the knoll.. “Jod... Jodrey was ahead of me.”

“And?” Merlin prompts Riley. “Were you handling your weapons correctly?”

“I think so. I don't know!” Riley jiggles his foot, wipes at his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “I only know a shot went off because I heard the sound. It did my eardrums in.”

“Just like that?” says Sergeant Pendragon, frowning. “Your weapon went off just like that?”

“Yeah. I mean, n-no. I mean...I don't know what happened!” Riley says, sitting back down, then jumping up again. “One moment he was running ahead of me and the next he was down.”

“Let's go over this again,” says Merlin, nodding to Riley. “You were going up that hill over there.”

“Yeah.” Riley runs his hand through too short hair, sidles from foot to foot, gesticulates at the path. “I was and then...” He starts enunciating badly, hurriedly, as if he must get all the words out at once. I just meant to be the first to get to the top of the ridge.”

“Why?” Merlin frowns.

“Mordred and I,” Riley says, searching the range with his eyes for one of his comrades, “had a bet going on.”

Merlin can see where this is going, but he asks the question all the same. “What kind of bet?”

Riley mumbles the words so that at first Merlin doesn't understand them. Only after Pendragon's said, “Louder, Private,” does he answer more clearly.

Hugging himself as though he's cold, he says, “We bet on who'd get to the ridge first.”

“I see,” says Merlin. “And you didn't think that was perhaps unwise?”

“It was just an exercise, sir!” Riley says. “We have them nearly every month. I didn't... I didn't think anything'd go wrong.”

“Did you pull the trigger?” Pendragon asks.

Riley blinks several times. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” Sergeant Pendragon says, his mouth tightening.

Riley shakes in place, stamps his feet as if that can warm him up. “I'm not sure. I don't remember, sir. Just got this big black void in my head.”

“All right,” says Merlin, scratching at the arc of his eyebrow. “All right. Do try and tell us all that you do remember, though.”

“If I did,” Riley says, continuing to pursue his own train of thought. His wide eyes search the horizon as if for clues, answers. “It was an accident.”

“So your rifle did fire,” says Sergeant Pendragon.

“I...” Private Riley's throat works and he goes green. “I suppose so, sir.”

Merlin says, “Are you all right, Private?”

“Yes...no.” Riley looks at them out of wide eyes, his pupils blown, as though he's doesn't know the answer himself, or is just now getting at it. “I don't know, sir.”

Merlin catches Sergeant Pendragon's eye. Pendragon looks to Private Riley, then away. Hands on his hips, he slowly nods.

“You should let a doctor check you up,” Merlin tells the Private. “You just got a big shock, after all.”

“Yes, sir,” Riley says, leaning against the Jeep's chassis. He's drenched in sweat and his eyes nearly close against the light. “I do feel... Not quite right, sir. Pretty horrible... To think that I...”

Merlin signals one of the nursing staff, who promptly comes over. “Could you take Private Riley to hospital, please?”

The nurse gives Riley a once over, says, “Of course,” then leads him away, supporting him by the elbows.

“That was interesting,” Merlin says, watching the two traverse the range.

“That was interesting, sir,” Sergeant Pendragon says, pinning him with his gaze.

“Oh, come on,” Merlin says. “The moment Kernow signs my permanent transfer papers, I'm going to be a sergeant, just like you.”

“He hasn't yet.” Sergeant Pendragon lifts his chin.

“He's going to!” Merlin gesticulates at the place Kernow disappeared to. “You know that.”

“Still.” Pendragon flails his hands. “In the meanwhile.”

Merlin rolls his eyes.“That was interesting, sir,” he says, stressing the last word, before hailing an armoured vehicle. “Let's get to base, shall we?”

Pendragon joins him, walks round him, brushing right past Merlin, and climbs right next to the driver, forcing Merlin to take the back seat. “Get us back to barracks,” Pendragon tells the squaddie before Merlin can utter a word or thank the poor private for allowing his vehicle to be co-opted.

Working with Sergeant Pendragon is definitely going to be a challenge.

 

**** 

 

Emrys opens the door and escorts Aglain in. He sits opposite him and right next to Arthur. He gives Arthur a look and Arthur starts the questioning, recording date and hour. “Sir,” he then tells Aglain, “could you describe the accident for us?”

Lieutenant Aglain steeples his fingers together, wets his lips, nods. “It went on very fast. I was about to give the order to take the hill, when Geraint, that's Private Jodrey...” Aglain lowers his head. “He sprang forwards.”

“Before you gave the order?”

“A split second before,” Aglain tells them, while Merlin notes his answer down.

“And you didn't call him back, sir?” Merlin asks, eyes on the page as he finishes rounding off the letters.

Arthur waits for the lieutenant to answer; he's almost about to reformulate the question, cast it in another mould, when Lieutenant Aglain finally speaks up. “He took off a split second before. He must have understood what order would be given on the basis of my body language.”

Arthur looks to Merlin, who's doing a fine job of looking at the paper in front of him and noting things down. “And after that? What happened after that?”

“The lads did everything by the book,” says Aglain. “They took the guns and the tank and were making for the ridge.”

Arthur waits for Aglain to reprise. When he doesn't, he urges the man on with one word, “Sir.”

“Yes.” Aglain scrubs a hand down his face. “You know, you train these lads. You make sure they learn what it takes to survive out there.” He makes a gesture Arthur takes to mean the field of battle. “And you're prepared for that. You're bracing for the inevitable losses. But what you don't expect is for them to be hurt by friendly fire.”

Without a by-your-leave, Emrys takes over from Arthur and just starts talking in a low, understanding tone that's so soothing Arthur wants to trust the man himself. “No, you most certainly don't. They're supposed to be safe.”

“Yes,” Aglain says, nodding. “I would never have thought they wouldn't be.”

“But something went wrong,” Merlin continues.

“Yes.” Aglain catches his eyes. “It did.”

“Did you see Ranulf Riley fire?” Arthur says, slipping in a question now that Aglain seems again willing to discuss what happened on the training range.

“No.” Aglain shakes his head. “I was running myself. Checking that we were following orders from command.”

“You must have heard the shot though,” Merlin says, putting the pen down, as though he doesn't mean to put this on record, though they're certainly recording all that's being said. “An L85 is pretty noisy.”

“Yes,” Aglain says, splaying his hands on the table as if he needs the support. “I did hear the shot.”

“And that was when you realised that something had gone down?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Aglain says. “I swivelled round. Saw Jodrey stagger forwards and then crumple.” Aglain sighs. “It took me some few precious seconds to understand what had happened. To process.”

“And Riley?” Emrys asks. “Did you see what Riley was doing at the time?”

“He was well ahead of me and to the far left,” Aglain says, brow pinching as he remembers. “He and Mordred were sprinting forwards close to each other. When they saw Jodrey was down, they were the first to go help.”

Emrys looks at Arthur.

Arthur's mouth works in a grimace. “What kind of soldier is Riley?”

“He's young,” Aglain says, shifting his look from Arthur to Emrys. “Only a year and a half out of trade training.”

“I remember being a year and a half out of training.” A smile inches onto Emrys' face. “It was tough.”

Arthur wants to roll his eyes but doesn't, seeing that Aglain bites on the suggestion.

“Yes,” Aglain says. “It is tough. We ask a lot of these young men. Riley made it.”

“How well?” Arthur asks, watching Aglain for reactions.

“Sufficiently well,” Aglain tells him, lowering his eyes. “He isn't the best soldier we've ever had. But he passed all tests. He's adapted well. And obeys orders promptly.”

“How about his marksman skills?”

“They're perfectly within army average.”

“So he shouldn't have hit his colleague?” Arthur asks. The words taste bad on his mouth, but it's his duty to say them, so he doesn't hesitate. “Was there bad blood between them?”

Aglain goes rigid. “No. I wouldn't say so.”

Arthur was expecting that type of answer. If he's honest, he'd have answered in the same way if he had command of a platoon and one of his men's actions were being called into question. “Were they friends then?”

“I wouldn't say that, either.” Aglain's gaze goes from the table to Arthur. “They weren't close.”

“Does Riley have other mates?” Merlin asks in such a conversational tone Aglain's fooled into answering.

“Yeah,” he says, with more enthusiasm than he displayed before. “He's friendly with a good deal of his mates.”

“And Geraint Jodrey?” Merlin says. “Does he have lots of friends?”

“Geraint's a man's man.” Aglain drums his fingers on the table. “Lots of people gravitate towards him.”

“Good for a soldier,” Merlin says, arching his eyebrows. “If he wants to make a career out of staying in the military.”

“That's a consideration for the future,” Aglain says, his jaw clenching. “But in light of what's happened that seems like such an inappropriate topic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go to hospital so I can check on Jodrey.”

Arthur knows he can't detain Aglain any longer, so, even if there's more he'd like to know, he lets Aglain go.

When the door closes behind him, Emrys turns to Arthur and says. “There's something he's not saying.”

“Maybe,” says Arthur. “Or maybe not. Whatever you were used to doing under Keithley, we're not in the habit of going off on hunches here.”

 

Emrys jiggles his leg. “I was merely making an observation; not saying I had anything to go on.”

“Yes.” Arthur stands, crosses his arms. “It's still my place to remind you we ought to act on the basis of facts.”

“Yes, sir,” Emrys says. He says it with a straight face and there's nothing in his tone to suggest he's taking the piss, yet Arthur can feel attitude radiating off him in waves. “Shall I get the other Dorset in?”

“Yes,” says Arthur. “Let's start with the one that was closest to Riley when he fired. And proceed outwards.”

“Right,” says Emrys, picking himself up and going to the door. He opens it and disappears briefly before coming back with a private in tow. “Please, take a seat.”

The Private, Mordred Jones, murmurs a thank you and drags a chair forward. He arranges himself into it with care.

“Stiff from the drill, Private?” Merlin grins

“No.” Mordred shakes his head. “I'm fine.”

“So,” Arthur says, loitering back towards the table with his arms still crossed. “Can you tell us what you remember from today's exercise, Private?”

“Well, the obvious,” Mordred says, meeting Arthur's life. “Jodrey went down.”

“Yes.” Arthur raises his chin. “He was hit by friendly fire.”

“Apparently,” Mordred says, lifting a shoulder.

“You were the closest to Ranulf Riley,” Merlin says, riffling through his notes. “Weren't you?”

“I can't be positive.”

“Lieutenant Aglain says you were.” Arthur lifts an eyebrow.

Mordred leans forwards. “In that case he's correct. Our lieutenant is always right.”

“He's a good leader?” Merlin asks, cocking his head to the side.

“The best,” Mordred answers quickly, without weighing the question. “If he says I was closest to him then I was.”

“Did you see Ranulf shoot?” Arthur asks.

Mordred's eyes go smaller. “No. But then again, I wasn't looking at him or his weapon.”

Merlin makes a little noise in his throat as though the statement's made him curious. “But you heard  
the shot?”

“Yes,” Mordred says, voice level. “But I couldn't place it at first.”

“And then?” Emrys prods. “When did you realise something had gone wrong?”

“The moment everybody else did, I think,” Mordred says, once again raising his shoulders. “When Geraint was cut down.”

“Were you the one to radio for help?” Arthur asks.

“No.” Mordred moves his head from side to side. “Our lieutenant did.”

“How did it feel?” Merlin asks, tapping his pen against the rim of the table. “Seeing him fold?”

Mordred's head whips round. “I don't know. How should it feel?”

Emrys nods his head slowly, looks away. “I was deployed to Afghanistan twice. Before Afghan Forces took over security from us last year. There were a few accidents. We had a couple tense moments. But nothing...” Emrys' eyes wander across the room, but Arthur knows he's not seeing it. He's seeing something else. It's in the way his pupils shrink and the way his muscles tense, his forearms cord with the tension of it. “But nothing will be worse than the time”–Emrys wets his lips –“that I saw my old mate from before the army bleed to... bleed to death.”

“Geraint and I,” Mordred says in low tones, “have never been as close as all that. So...”

“Why?” Arthur asks, needing to use the in that Emrys gave him; both because it's necessary to the investigation and because he doesn't want to dwell on the way Emrys opened up. Or how he sounded when he did. “There must be a reason.”

“Is there always?” Mordred asks, tipping his head up. “I don't know. We've just never been that close. But I...” Mordred balls his fist. “I certainly do feel sorry for what's happened to him.”

“And to Riley by extension.”

“Oh, yes,” Mordred says, taking the hint from Emrys. “Most certainly. He did hurt Geraint.”

“Was there any animosity between the two of them?” Arthur asks, waving his hand. “Geraint and Ranulf?”

“They aren't besties.” Mordred pinches his mouth. “But Ranulf would never have harmed Geraint.”

Since that's a dead end in terms of questioning and entirely up to personal opinion, Arthur changes his line of enquiry. “You had a bet going with Ranulf.”

“Yes,” Mordred says, bobbing his head. “It wasn't particularly serious.”

“Can you be sure that's the same way Ranulf felt?” says Emrys, asking a variation of a question Arthur would have wanted to put to Mordred himself. “That he didn't take it seriously?”

“Nah,” says Mordred, his mouth twitching as he puts together an answer. “We've placed lots of bets before. This was the last in a row. It's a joke. We're not that competitive. Nothing's ever come of them anyway.”

“Riley sounded like he did want to win,” Arthur points out. “He said he was trying to catch up with Geraint.”

“Did he say that?” Mordred asks with a tilt of his head. “Well, he was trying to be one of the firsts, same as I was. But if he was really trying he'd have been in Geraint's place.”

“Would he?” Arthur questions just to see if he can get a rise out of Private Jones.

He doesn't. Mordred looks collected when he says, “I think so.”

At present and with no new information from either ballistics or the hospital, they let Jones go. They ask in the rest of the platoon. Bedivere comes right after. His tale isn't different from Aglain's or Mordred's. He confirms their account of how things developed and describes their relative positions. When asked about how Riley got along with Jodrey, he says he never gave the question much thought. When asked whether Ranulf is prudent and professional, Bedivere tells them that he thinks Riley is. “It's Geraint who's actually more slapdash about rules.”

“What do you mean?” Emrys asks, twigging on to that.

“Nothing.” Bedivere taps his foot on the floor. “Just that he's...”

“Superficial?” Arthur suggests, mostly to see what reaction this will get him.

“I never said that.” Bedivere locks his jaw

“So if you had to comment,” Emrys says. “What would you say?”

“Just that he's not as thorough as Riley,” Bedivere says, his shoulders curling defensively. “That's all.”

The other soldiers express themselves more or less in the same fashion, and bring nothing new to the table. The chain of events they relate is identical. None of them has anything bad to say about Riley. As for bets going on among the team, they all maintain they happen, but that no platoon member would ever take them so seriously as to engender others.

By the time he and Emrys are done with the soldiers, it's well past eight o'clock and they should have signed off duty more than an hour before.

“So,” Emrys says, stretching his back. “Do we call it a day?”

“Eager to cut short your first working day, are you?” Arthur says.

Emrys shakes his head. “No. I want to work this case. But we've questioned all the platoon. Have it all on record. And nothing's more going to happen tonight. I was just suggesting we don't waste energy we'd better keep for when we get more data.”

Arthur's lips twitch. “Very convincing. You could still be one lazy sod.”

Emrys smiles at him. “Believe what you want to believe.”

Arthur lowers his head and his hands go to his hips. He nods. “See you tomorrow, Emrys.”

 

**** 

 

Merlin takes possession of his quarters. He's been allotted a room of his own. It's rather sparse, but it's got all the essentials; a bed, a kind of locker that will serve as wardrobe, a desk, and even a night-stand. It's better than most military accommodations he's had to sleep in when he was a squaddie, although it's not as good as the flat he had at the base in Catterick.

It doesn't matter, though. Merlin just needs a space to call his own. A place to unwind in after a long day. And this is perfect.

He changes into his own clothes. His jeans are soft and his shirt is equally so, a little worn at the cuffs because he's had it so long. He throws a jacket on and makes his way outside. Halfway over to the base's perimeter gate, he's stopped by Maccance.

“I was trying to make my way to the Ross Line offices looking for you.”

“Private,” Merlin says, cringing internally.

“I was wondering if you had any news of Amfortas.”

“Not really,” Merlin says and though he wants to find the bleeding dog, now he means to unwind. It's not every day that a man nearly bleeds out in his line of sight. It's not every day that the sight freezes him, impresses itself on his retinas, and brings back memories. “I have another case as well. But I'll do my best to get him back.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Maccance with the beginnings of a smile. “I know it's only just a dog, but I've been caring for him for the past three years.”

“I get it.” This time it's Merlin's turn to crack a smile. “I really do. But you'll have to be patient.”

“Yes, sir!” Maccance salutes and gets going. Before he's quite disappeared from Merlin's sight he adds, “Thank you, sir.”

On his way over to the bus shelter, Merlin wears a smile. It rapidly fades when it starts to rain, big fat raindrops splashing into fast-forming puddles. Merlin pulls his collar up then slips his hands into his pockets.

He's kicking at gravel when a Jeep screeches to halt a few paces from him. The window is down and Merlin can see that the driver is Elena. “Hi, Merlin! Need a lift?”

Merlin approaches the vehicle's door and says, “I'd love to, but I'm going to Belfast.”

“We are, too,” says Elena, patting the arm of the person next to her, who, Merlin can now make out, is Sergeant Pendragon. “Still want that lift?”

Merlin hadn't meant to spend more time with the Sergeant, especially today of all days. But he doesn't fancy waiting for the bus. He's off duty and really wants to have a night out. “Yeah, sure, thank you,” he says, climbing into the back on the vehicle. Meeting Sergeant Pendragon's eyes in the rear-view, he says, “Evening, sir.”

 

“Emrys, we're off duty now,” Pendragon says, rolling his eyes. “You can do without the 'sir'.”

“You really have to decide,” Merlin says, shifting in his seat till it creaks. “You're either a stickler for rules or not at all. You're confusing me with your attitude.”

“So I must be one thing and one thing alone?” Sergeant Pendragon says, pinning Merlin with his gaze via the mirror. “Whatever happened to people being multi-faceted?”

Merlin lets his eyes crinkle. “Wow, that's deep.”

“Oh, please!”

Elena clears her throat. “So where to?”

“I just meant to hit a pub, or something,” Merlin says, bracing himself when Elena puts the Jeep in motion with rather more verve than warranted. “I'm new to the place.”

Elena says, “Trust me.”

Though Merlin's not sure he does, he goes with the flow.

Elena and the Sergeant take him to a pub on the outskirts of Belfast. The Rising Sun is an old fashioned establishment, all wooden surfaces, stained glass, and booths made of creaking, pliable leather. It's not as clean as it could be, a fine layer of dust is sprinkled across the floor, but in spite of that the place is still packed.

Most of the faces Merlin spies around are known ones. Since he hasn't been in Lisburn long enough to meet people, he can't have seen them anywhere else but at the base; therefore, they must be military personnel on a night out, here to listen to the live music or grab a bite.

“Oh, free table!” says Elena, launching herself at one and depositing some of her stuff on it so no one else will take it.

Sergeant Pendragon smiles and lightly shakes his head at Elena's antics.

“Oh,” Merlin says, looking down. “Perhaps I shouldn't have tagged along.”

Sergeant Pendragon frowns so hard multiple lines form on his brow. “You don't mean...” He studies Merlin's face and must have come to the conclusion that Merlin does indeed harbour thoughts he wants to challenge, because he adds, “She's a Corporal, and we're in the same chain of command. It's not done!”

“A lot of people go ahead regardless and keep it hush-hush,” Merlin says, because if there's one thing he's learnt in the army it's that people will have sex regardless. “I mean you're both NCOs, it's not as if you're crossing the dreaded officer-non commissioned staff line.”

“Still,” Pendragon says, pursing his mouth. “I wouldn't do that.”

Merlin ducks his head. Before he can try to pull his foot out of his mouth, Elena gestures to them to join her. Without a word they do.

Sergeant Pendragon finishes draping his jacket over a chair and says, “So what should I get you?”

“A pint of Forsters,” says Elena, handing Pendragon a fiver, which he rejects with a shake of the head.

Merlin says, “Um, I'll have some non-alcoholic cider, if they have it.”

“Teetotaller?” Pendragon asks.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, picking up the greasy menu from its stand. “Something like that.”

When Pendragon comes back with their beverages and some nosh, Elena asks, “So, Merlin, where are you from?”

“Originally, Glasgow,” he says, remembering even as he does some of his youthful haunts. “Then again, you probably spotted the accent. But I enrolled at seventeen and I've been moving about ever since.”

“Seventeen, wow,” says Elena. “Don't you need parental consent for that? I know I wanted to do much the same and my parents wouldn't have it.”

“I had it,” Merlin says, lifting a shoulder up to his ear. “My mum thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Who did you serve under before coming here?” Pendragon asks, clearly less interested in Merlin's life story than in his track record.

“I was part of Colonel Keithley's team,” Merlin says, taking a sip of his cider. It tastes bubbly. “It was really formative.”

Pendragon raises an eyebrow. “The Great Dragon Keithley? He's got a reputation for being very eccentric.”

“Yeah, maybe,” says Merlin, squaring his shoulders. “But he knows his stuff. He taught me everything I know.”

Pendragon takes a pull of his pint. “Let's hope that Keithley is as good as you say, then.”

Before Merlin can say something he will regret, Elena starts talking about herself. She tells them that she'd always wanted to be a soldier and that she was at her happiest when she was finally allowed to sign up. She also says she tried for SIB on a whim, but that she now loves the investigative part of her duties so much she knows this is what she wants to do. “If I pass the last test, that is.”

 

  
[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/texasfandoodler/70429176/90202/90202_600.jpg)   


 

“You most certainly will,” Merlin says.

“I hope so,” Elena says. “But you never know. It's very hard and so many people don't pass. Besides, I don't think I could stay with this team on my permanent attachment. So even if I do pass, I'll have to find some place else to go, which is a bit of a downer.”

“I guess that's my fault,” Merlin says, toying with his coaster. “If I hadn't got the job, the place'd be yours.”

“Oh no.” Elena flails her hands about. “No, I wasn't thinking that at all.”

Pendragon pushes off his chair. “I should get you another round.”

“No, that should be on me,” Merlin says.

“Nonsense,” the Sergeant says with such severity, Merlin thinks he's scarcely being polite. “I'll get it. You can get the rest.”

When Sergeant Pendragon's disappeared amid the crowd at the counter, Merlin winces. “He continues not to like me.”

“It's just that he's very protective of our team,” Elena says, her gaze softening. “He's a good person, really.”

“I'm sure,” Merlin says, fiddling with his napkin.

“You know, his father is General Pendragon,” Elena tells him. “His grandfather was in the army and so was his great grandfather.”

“I get the drift,” Merlin says, catching Elena's gaze and grinning.

“He comes from a pretty old family,” Elena says. “They wanted him to go to Sandhurst, become an officer, but he chose to be a soldier, start from the ranks, prove he was his own man.”

Merlin can't say that isn't admirable, because it is, but he can't reconcile that with the man he knows and who hasn't welcomed him to the team. He guesses he's being petty, that he ought to try harder with Pendragon, but sometimes it's hard to disregard being disliked.

Before he can answer with a consideration of his own, Pendragon comes back with drinks. He assigns each of them their own. He's in the middle of handing Merlin his, when he fixes his eyes on the door.

Merlin turns so he can see what's snagged Arthur's attention. At first amid the swarm of people he can't make out what it is. But then he sees the group of soldiers making for a table in the corner. In civvies they look plenty different, but they're most certainly Aglain's platoon.

Merlin recognises Mordred, Bedivere, Mckenna and a few others. With them are two girls. One is brown-haired, small-boned, dressed in jeans. There's something about her; perhaps the way she carries herself with her back very straight that screams military to him. She keeps close to Mordred and at one point her hand glances down his hip. The other girl, on the other hand, seems to be a little in her cups, at least if her laughing boisterously and swaying into the booth are anything to go by. She lands next to the other woman in the group, who has plonked down next to Mordred.

“Riley's not there,” Sergeant Pendragon says.

“But the others are,” Merlin says, turning around so he's not seen staring.

“Not very upset, are they?” Pendragon says, catching his eye and raising his eyebrow.

Merlin shifts his weight in his seat. “Or maybe they're very much so and trying to drown their sorrows in alcohol.”

“Who thinks that helps?”

“A lot of people do,” Merlin says, wincing and then blanking his face. “No way to know what that bunch are here for.”

“Wait,” Elena says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Are those the boys from the Dorsets?”

“Yes.” Merlin briefly nods. “I, for one, wasn't expecting to see them here.”

“This pub is popular with the people at the base,” Sergeant Pendragon tells him.

“So you were being very original when you got me here?” Merlin says, lips twitching.

Sergeant Pendragon laughs, shoulders rising with the motion. For the first time since Merlin's known him, he's looking at Merlin in a friendly way. _Must be the beer_ , Merlin mulls.

“They're being pretty quiet for a group of lads on their night off duty.”

“So perhaps they have taken a hit after all,” Merlin says.

Since the Dorsets are not doing anything other than drinking and playing darts, Merlin, Elena and Sergeant Pendragon forget about the platoon boys.

Until, that is, Elena straightens and says, “Look what's going on over there.”

Merlin cocks his head just a little and sees Mckenna make a beeline for the girl who's taking a stand behind the mic. She's tall and blonde, blue eyed with eyes that slant a little, very striking with her Goth garb and could-care-less attitude. She fiddles with the mic; tosses her hair back. Mckenna calls something to her. She shakes her head, continues manipulating the stand until the mic itself comes off in her hands. 

She kicks at the chair behind her, then whirls round and snaps, “Sod off.”

Mckenna persists, saying something else Merlin can't hear.

The girl, too, lowers her voice; it's clear she's talking in hisses.

“Geraint's been shot, I tell you!” Mckenna says, loudly enough that all other normal pub noises get hushed. In more subdued tones, he adds, “He's in hospital.”

“That's a prank,” she says, her mouth curling downwards. “He's with some girl. And you know what, I don't care.”

Mckenna shows her his empty hands, palms up. “Why would I even lie about something like that!”

The girl presses her hands before her mouth, skips off the stage, and makes for the back exit.

Mckenna follows after her.

Merlin puts his glass down.

Sergeant Pendragon makes big, surprised eyes at him when he sees him standing. “Where are you going?”

“Snooping,” Merlin says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But why?” says Elena, two frown lines cutting across her brow.

“Because,” says Merlin, eyeing the door the girl and Mckenna left through, “there's something about this that's not sitting well with me.”

A slice of courtyard is cut out from the back alley. Behind the wheeley bins are the girl and Mckenna. The girl is standing in a puddle that smells of mould and sewage, her hands in her hair. Merlin hides among the shadows on the other side of the bins.

“You're telling the truth then.”

“Yes,” Mckenna says. “I have nothing to gain by telling you that he's not okay.”

“I thought,” she says, sounding rather vacant, “you were covering up for the wanker. Concealing another one of his escapades from me.”

“Have I ever done that before?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, not this time,” Mckenna says. “I'm not lying for him.”

A sob issues from the girl and Merlin can't tell whether it's from annoyance, anger or desperation. “What hospital is he in?”

“He was moved from 204 and sent to Lagan Valley Hospital,” Mckenna says. “Are you going to visit?”

“I don't know,” the girl says. “I'll have to think about it.”

“Eira!”

Feeling he's heard enough, Merlin retreats. When he rejoins Elena and the Sergeant, they look at him expectantly.

Merlin sinks into his seat. “Something's going on with those two.”

Pendragon shoots him a worried look, but then he says, “There's no connection with our case.”

“No, of course not,” Merlin says, and Pendragon is right. There is none. For some reason, though, the interactions he's just witnessed got his attention. He can't put his finger on the reason why, but then again what he saw comes across as weird to him. He realises it's none of his business; what happened during the accident seems clear cut enough, and has nothing to do with the private lives of the Dorsets, which he should stop poking at. But stopping comes hard. “Let me a get a round for you two.”

 

**** 

 

The whitewashed walls reflect the glare of the neon lights, brighter than the pallid effusions of the morning sun. Arthur's soles clap on the pristine tiles as do the ones of the doctor striding towards him, white coat flapping behind him.

“I gather you're the person from the military,” the doctor says, looking at Arthur from under his bent brows.

Arthur shows him his warrant card. “Arthur Pendragon, 174 Provost Company, Lisburn SIB.”

“Yes, yes,” the doctor says, waving at the paperwork. “I'm sure that's good.”

“You called our office,” Arthur says, wanting the doctor to tell him why the hell that call was placed.

“Yes.” The doctor bobs his head briskly. “Mr Jodrey worsened overnight, so I put in the call.”

“How is he?” says Arthur, mentally readying himself to contact Jodrey's next of kin.

“He died,” the doctor deadpans. “He went into circulatory shock, which led to a cardiac arrest.”

A breath rattles out of Arthur. He had expected a worsening of the lad's condition, but not that he'd actually die. “And that was caused by the wound he received on the training grounds?”

“No.” The doctor huffs. “He died from totally unrelated circumstances.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Of course his death was a consequence of the shooting,” the doctor says, the corner of his mouth rippling with tension. “We stabilised him yesterday, but overnight he worsened. He didn't have enough oxygen in his tissues, which translated to low BP, tachycardia, and extremely poor end-organ perfusion.”

Arthur can guess what happened then. “So his heart took a hit.”

“You can say that,” the doctor says. “Another victim of military aggression.”

Arthur doesn't comment on that. He's had that discussion many times and arguing doesn't help. He can see the reasons that have gone into forming stances such as the doctor's, but he's met too many good people in the army to be able to condemn it. He has too strong ties to it for that to ever happen. Besides, that's not an appropriate conversation to have now. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says, nodding before turning around to fish his mobile out of his pocket.

Sergeant Major Kernow answers with a bark. “Yes.”

“Sir, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Something tells me this is not good news.”

“I'm at Lagan Valley, sir,” Arthur says, pressing a finger against his ear so he can concentrate on the call rather than on the hospital noise around him. “Jodrey died.”

“Right,” says Kernow with a hint of surprise in his voice. “Come back to base, Pendragon. It seems we've got a serious investigation on our hands.”

When Arthur arrives back at Ross Line, the team has already gathered in Kernow's office. Kernow himself is leaning against his desk, arms crossed. Daegal and Merlin are standing in the wings, Daegal in a mirror pose to the boss and Merlin with his shoulders down and his feet splayed wide. Elyan and Elena have the chairs opposite the desk. Elena has a pad open on her knees and is taking notes of what Kernow's saying.

“Ha, Pendragon,” Kernow says, waving him in. “Just the man we were waiting for.”

“Sorry, sir,” Arthur says, shoulders going stiff. “I was stuck in traffic.”

“Never mind that, Pendragon, you've managed to waltz in just at the right moment,” says Kernow, refolding his arms at a different angle. “Smith was about to read out the results of the tox screening we run on Aglain's platoon and Riley in particular.”

Elyan looks up from a pile of sheets sitting in his lap. “I'll break down the medical jargon. The platoon was clean, barring Riley. Riley tested positive for Tetrahydrocannabinol, Amphetamines, Caffeine and Scopolamine.”

“You said you'd break it down,” Elena says, furrowing her brow. Her pen is poised over her notepapers. “What you just said is not the easy version.”

“Basically he tested positive for both soft and hard drugs,” Elyan says, ranging his gaze from person to person.

“Which means,” says Kernow, bracing his fingertips against his temple, “that this becomes a major investigation. And that Riley may be charged with either manslaughter or downright murder.”

“Sir,” Emrys says, stepping forward. His face has set in a mask of concern, his cheeks hollowed as if he's sucking them in. “There's something about this that doesn't ring quite right to me.”

Arthur is expecting Kernow to blow off at Emrys, but he doesn't. He appears to be as interested to hear about this as Arthur must admit he is.

“I have little to go on, sir,” Emrys says, rotating his shoulders as if to ease them before going on. “But that mix of drugs is pretty weird.”

“How?” Arthur asks, stepping in, even though he should have left the question to Kernow.

Emrys' gaze focuses on him, eyes darkening with some sort of intent. Arthur doesn't know whether that's because he's tense at the idea of putting himself forward or because he's trying to look convincing. Either way there's something arresting about the way he delivers his next words. “Because it's a mixture of drugs you don't generally shake together.”

“Couldn't he have just swallowed everything he could lay his hands on?” Arthur asks, because that doesn't seem improbable to him. Soldiers sometimes do that. Not all the time, obviously. Arthur swears by the corps, but sometimes young people will be imprudent. “Maybe he didn't even know what was what.”

“Yeah, but,” Emrys says, gaze flicking between Arthur and Kernow. “It's still odd. I mean I get the weed. You're tense, you know you're slotted for a field exercise so you take some. I get that.”

Arthur tilts his head. “So what makes you think there's something odd about the results?”

“The other two,” Emrys says, tone level. “They're hard drugs. Who'd take them before starting manoeuvres?”

“An addict?” Arthur asks, tipping up an eyebrow.

Emrys' shoulders round with tension, the tendons in his wrist standing out. “Perhaps. But think about it; he's clean, in good shape, no track marks or visible signs of health deterioration. And you'd see those if he was such a regular he had to use on the morning of an exercise.”

“What if he was just giving it a try?” Arthur says. He's neither a doctor nor an expert, but that possibility comes to mind. “What if he has marks where we can't see them? What if he doesn't inject? You can be an addict and not do that. What if he's new at it and his health hasn't been impacted?”

“Possible.” Emrys nods in assent, but the frown he's wearing tells Arthur he isn't at peace with Arthur's explanation. “But then why mix Scopolamine, which is a really scary drug...”

“Isn't it a rape date drug?” Elena asks.

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “Among other things... It's seriously trippy stuff, so why take weed with that? I mean, weed slows down the effects of Scopolamine. I don't get going to the lengths of taking Scopolamine if you next proceed to water it down?”

Arthur widens his eyes That's not just something he had thought of. Even so, there's an explanation for that and he voices it. “So he could be aware enough to go through the exercise.”

“I'm sorry,” Elena interrupts them, “but we test our soldiers regularly. He can't have been an addict. He'd have been kicked out long ago.”

“Not if it was a recent habit he'd developed,” Arthur points out. “And not if he was lucky and was never in for random tests.”

“Either way,” Emrys says, a web of lines between his brow, “this seems a little strange to me.”

“If he downed Private Jodrey,” Kernow says, speaking up for the first time since Merlin started, “he's still guilty of whatever they'll choose to charge him for.”

“Especially if ballistics comes back with a report stating his weapon fired,” Elyan says, arching both eyebrows. “Which they most probably will.”

“Still,” Merlin says, his gaze sliding from Elyan to the Sergeant Major. “I'd like to look at this a little more closely.”

“I think it's an open and shut case,” says Kernow, and for some reason, when he does, Arthur wants to speak up for Emrys. “But look into it to your heart's content.”

Emrys breaks into a smile that's more arresting than the circumstances warrant.

 

***** 

 

“Before we go in,” Merlin says, his hands getting sweaty as he contemplates explaining this one, “I wanted to ask you if I could lead?”

“Because you trust me so little?” Pendragon says, with his brow pinched.

“No, no.” Merlin waves his hands about, trying to extract himself from this quagmire. “It's just that I think you can come in too strong.”

“Are you criticising your superior, Merlin?”

The fact is Merlin is not. They worked quite well together when they took the Dorset's general statements. But this time, this time, Merlin can be more effective than Pendragon, and there's no way of telling him that other than making a clean breast. Which he doesn't mean to do. “No. I just think I can connect with a squaddie better than you.” He makes a show of eyeing Pendragon's suit. “You know how it is.”

“You still outrank him,” Pendragon says. Softening, he adds, “But if you think that'll work, go right ahead.”

Merlin flashes Pendragon a relieved smile. “Thank you.”

For some reason that tears a little gasp from Pendragon.

They find Ranulf Riley sitting in the shadows behind a big metal table. He has his head in his hands. His hands are shaking.

While Pendragon leans against the door, hands sliding to his pockets, Merlin takes a seat across from the squaddie. “Hello, Ranulf.”

Riley doesn't look up.

“Ranulf?”

This time Riley looks at him. There are circles under his bloodshot eyes and he looks as though he's been through hell and back. “Sir.”

“Ranulf,” Merlin says in a voice meant not to startle the lad. “I'd like to talk about the accident.”

“Jod died,” says Ranulf.

The way he says that tears at Merlin's insides. Even Pendragon shifts in his corner and Merlin can tell why. There is such desolation in Riley's delivery you can't help but react. “That's right. That's why I need to talk to you.”

“I killed him, didn't I?” Ranulf says, shaking his head from side to side as he heaves a big sigh. “What else is there to talk about?”

“I don't know,” Merlin says, hinting at a smile. “Maybe we could go over what happened again?”

“I don't remember anything anymore.”

Pendragon makes a small noise in the background. Merlin picks up on that and says, “You did talk to us right after Jodrey went down.”

“I know. Mordred said I did.” Riley's shoulders go up defensively. “But I can't remember that or what happened before. I just don't.”

Pendragon moves off the wall and comes straddle the chair placed next to Merlin's. He doesn't say anything, though. Merlin gives him a brief smile then goes back to questioning Riley. “Ranulf, have you ever taken drugs?”

Riley's head snaps up. “What? No! They test you for that shit.” His gaze swivels on to Arthur. “With all due respect, sir, I know they'd kick you out of the army if you did. I like the army.”

“All right, okay,” Merlin says, sharing a look with Pendragon. “But you tested positive for a few drugs. Do you know how you might have ingested them?”

“No!” Riley stands up, takes in Pendragon's glare and Merlin's less than chuffed expression. He sinks back down in his chair. “I don't remember what happened. But I know for sure I never take anything, so I don't know why I was positive.”

“So you never tried anything?” Merlin asks, breathing in hard before he volleys out the next part of the question. “Because you were feeling down, because you wanted out of your life, or sought the rush?”

“No,” Ranulf says, mouth taut around the word. “I know what that stuff does to you. I always wanted to be in the army. I wouldn't take something that makes me less efficient.”

“All right, Ranulf,” Merlin says. “What about the others in your platoon. Does any of them use?”

Ranulf shakes his head tight. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Pendragon asks, and he couldn't have chosen a more apt moment to butt in. “I mean there's a few of you. How can you know none of them has some sort of addiction?”

“We're all clean,” Ranulf tells them, staring at them as if he wants his statement to sink in.

“Sometimes,” Merlin says, jiggling his foot. “You don't notice someone's using until their health starts to suffer and their habits change. It doesn't happen overnight.”

“Well, yes, maybe.” Ranulf places both hands on the table, looks down at them. “But I never noticed anything like that.”

“And you never took any yourself?” Pendragon asks.

Riley's clamps his mouth shut, goes tense around the shoulders.

“Answer the question, Private,” Pendragon says, and though it's clearly an order, there's a softer edge to his tone Merlin's grateful for.

“I told ya, didn't I?” Riley fists his hair, moves his head from side to side. When he looks back up, his eyes are wet with tears. “I didn't want Jod to die. Or anyone. I really wish... I really wish none of this had happened.”

“Do you feel responsible?” Pendragon pins Riley down with his inquisitive stare.

“No!” Riley makes a sign with his head. “But I feel sorry this happened to him! Shit, he was too young to die.”

“Yes.”

“If there was someone who knew how to live,” Riley continues, “that was Jod. Knowing he's dead, it doesn't make sense.”

“What do you mean?” Pendragon asks.

“He had a girls and knew how to have a good time.”

Merlin and Pendragon's gazes meet in the middle.

Riley goes on. “I never, not for one moment, wished to do Jodrey harm.”

“But he did die,” Pendragon says.

“And I wish I could turn back time and stop that,” says Riley, biting his lip. “But I can't and, oh my God...”

Pendragon rises. “In accordance with the provisions of the Service Custody and Service of Relevant Sentences Rules 2009, we're taking you in custody.”

Riley jumps to his feet. “What! Why?”

“Because an investigation into the death of Geraint Jodrey is ongoing,” Pendragon says, straightening his jacket. “We need you for questioning.”

“You're charging me?” Riley's eyes widen.

“Not yet,” Merlin says, glad that he isn't lying on this head. “But we need to look into this.”

Riley's mouth slowly slips open “Are you sending me to the MCTC?”

“No.” Merlin experiences a wash of pity for Riley at the frantic tone of his question. “We need you around to answer questions, confirm things. So you're staying here at the Ross Line SFC.”

“Thank you, sir,” Riley says and it's ridiculous how relieved he looks with all that is still looming over him.

Outside the interrogation room, Pendragon tells him, “So what do you think? Is he lying?”

Merlin worries his lip. “No, I don't think he is. Not about forgetting everything. That's what Scopolamine does after all.”

“But about taking it and then inadvertently shooting Jodrey?”

“He must have,” Merlin says. As he does, he realises that there's something about this that doesn't fit. Not that he can tell what it is. It's just a hunch. “But I'm not sure.”

“Someone must have sold him the drugs that were in his system.”

“Do you think it happened here at the base?” Merlin doesn't know Lisburn yet, its darker goings on. It's a big base and a dealer could be hiding among their midst.

“In the past few years we've had a few cases of substance abuse,” Pendragon says thoughtfully. “But nothing big. We only prosecuted once and it was over a cistern full of weed. Elyan had the case”

“Well, then how about we talk to Elyan and see if he can lead us to the dealer?” Merlin says, thinking ahead. “If this person remembers selling the stuff to Riley... It's worth a shot.”

“Let's go then,” Pendragon says, and he smiles then. It's quite pleasant because the grin lights up his whole face. “Let's get cracking.”

 

****

 

“There he is,” Arthur says, pointing to the Lance Corporal climbing the rope. “Our dealer.”

“He doesn't look like a big time one.” Emrys squints at the man, watches him touch the knot on top, then start back down.

“He wasn't. He basically bought weed then sold it at a pumped up price.” Arthur compresses his lips. “Otherwise, we wouldn't have let him stay on.”

“Maybe he's upgraded to something else,” Emrys says, though if Arthur's got a read of him, he doesn't look convinced. “Let's go talk to him.”

They walk up to the Lance Corporal. “Ian Cedric?” Arthur asks. “Sergeant Pendragon, Corporal Emrys, 174 Provost Company, SIB. We need to talk to you.”

“SIB?” Cedric's upper lip twitched. “I haven't done anything.”

“Just come with us,” Emrys says, gesturing the Lance Corporal forwards.

“Look,” Cedric says, glancing from one to the other of them, “I haven't had a problem with SIB in a long time. I'm clean.”

“Let us establish that,” Arthur says, squaring his shoulders. “If you'll come with us.”

They escort Cedric into an interrogation room. At first, he crosses his arms and zips his lips shut, his eyes level with the desk. Knowing Lance Corporal Cedric is going to be as uncooperative as possible, Arthur says, “Lance Corporal, have you dealt drugs since last being investigated?”

“No,” Cedric answers, puckering his lips so they stick together. “I haven't.”

“Have you taken any?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who does,” Arthur insists, his own brow puckering into a series of severe lines. “Do you know anything at all about drug trafficking at the base?”

“Nope and nope,” Lance Corporal Cedric says, smacking his lips on the consonants.

Arthur stands abruptly, making the chair rattle back, slams a hand on the desk, and says, “I think something's not entirely clear to you. It's not too late to kick you out of the army.”

Emrys looks up to Arthur, nods, and then slides his gaze over to Cedric. “He's right, you know. You don't want to give us attitude.”

Cedric looks away.

“The army is fine, Lance Corporal,” Emrys says, catching his eyes. “In spite of the skills you might have learnt here, life out there isn't so easy.”

Cedric scoffs but he narrows his eyes and tenses his jaw. “What would you know of life out there?”

“Plenty,” Emrys says, joining his hands and leaning forwards. “I know the army set me straight.”

Before Emrys came up with that statement, Arthur was paying attention to Cedric. Now, he double takes, listens to what Emrys has to say. He wasn't expecting him to share, but he can't say he hasn't wondered.

“Look, I was born more than moderately poor.”

“Pull the other one.” Cedric makes a disbelieving noise, one Arthur wants to punch him for. It's not the attitude per se – he's come to expect that – but the way his colleague's being treated.

“I was,” Emrys says, and though Arthur knows he has a reason for saying that right now, he doesn't doubt he's sincere, too. “I come from that kind of background where the army is the only out you get – the bottom of the barrel.”

Cedric ups his shoulders. “In that case, you know I'm not about to say anything to SIB people.”

“We can look the other way if you disclose anything of interest to us,” Arthur says, knowing he has to give the Lance Corporal something if he wants to hear the truth.

Cedric crosses his legs, places his hand on his knee, tuts.

Emrys rests his hands on the desk, leans forward. “You know, you can trust Sergeant Pendragon. For types like him the army is a calling. It's about honour and righteousness.” He tips his head in Arthur's direction, his words spreading some kind of warmth in Arthur's guts. “If I were you, I'd talk to someone like him.”

Cedric holds Emrys' stare for a few seconds, then relaxes against the back of his chair. “What do you want to know?”

“Have you been busy since your last brush with us?” Arthur asks. “Have you dealt at all?”

Cedric resettles, smacks his lips together, and looks at Arthur from under raised eyebrows.

Arthur wants to smack him one, but he patiently refrains.

Cedric starts speaking. “I'm not that big of an idiot.”

“But you've bought,” Emrys says, going on what Arthur must believe is a hunch.

“Let's say that I know there's someone who sells.”

“On base or off base?” Arthur cocks his head to the side.

“Off base,” Cedric says, lifting his shoulders. “There's a bloke who deals... Off base.”

“So we're talking Lisburn,” Arthur asks, dreading having to deal with the local police. “Or further afield?”

“Lisburn,” Cedric tells them, pressing his lips together. “But I wouldn't be surprised if this bloke had contacts in Belfast.”

“So who is he?” Arthur's had enough of Cedric's attitude. He wants him to spit out what he knows. Actually, he'd love it if Cedric could be kicked out of the army entirely. But at the moment that's not their top priority. They need that name and Cedric's irrelevant. Besides, Emrys has buttered Cedric up well enough; they mustn't waste his work. “Give us a contact.”

Cedric moves his jaw this way and that, looking like a rodent with extremely mobile bones. “I'm not that stupid. I do that, you put it on my record.”

“Look,” Emrys says and this time his face tightens, morphs entirely, becomes a mask that's quite cold and threatening. It's something Arthur wouldn't have expected from him at all. Even his delivery is different, much more guttural. “Don't be a tosser now. We've promised to make your life easier, even if you don't deserve it. We just need a name. That's it. And you can wash your hands of this one.”

“I don't know this bloke's name.”

“And you want me to believe that?” Emrys' voice goes perilously low. “We're not idiots.”

Cedric snorts loud through his nose.

“I think we've been too kind,” Arthur makes a show of telling Emrys.

“I think so, too,” Emrys says, engaging quickly. “We don't really need him, do we?”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head, purses his mouth. “We can toss him back to Elyan. He'll be quite happy to re-open his old investigation.”

“Yeah.” Emrys goes with it. “I think he was looking forward to finally see justice done and with the Lance Corporal here having used again since....”

Cedric butts back in. “Hey, I do want to help you. I do. No need to re-open anything. But do you really think I have a real name? That people give you their real name when they deal? Who'd be so stupid?”

“You must have a contact though,” Emrys says, swinging his head round to flay Cedric with a look. “A way to get in touch, something.”

“I may have.” Cedric works his lips over his teeth, makes a smacking sound. “If you guarantee me I'm not going to be kicked out.”

Emrys stands abruptly, walks to the door, working his fists. Then he stops before clearing the exit, tips his head back, inhales, and slowly makes his way back to Arthur.

Arthur nods, gentles his stare, meets Emrys' eyes. Emrys smiles up at him and though it's a feeble smile it's got quite the punch.

Emrys turns around and tells Cedric, “Give.”

“You won't tell him I gave it to you?”

Arthur deliberately brushes shoulders with Emrys, shakes his head. Emrys says, “You're stretching your luck, Lance Corporal.”

“I—”

“Now!” Arthur shouts, pleased to notice that Cedric nearly jumps out of his chair.

“It's a number,” says Cedric, his voice wavering, before he starts reciting it. “I'm not sure it's still good. It changes.”

“Don't worry,” Arthur says, watching as Merlin notes it down. “We can be trusted with tracking it down on our own.”

Cedric doesn't look too happy about that. “Can I go now?”

“Not quite yet,” Emrys says, looking up from his note. “You dabble.”

Cedric makes a face. “Yeah.”

“So you'll know who does as well.”

Cedric sends Arthur a hopeful glance, as if Arthur can spare him from answering that question.

Arthur actually wants to kick him in the arse. But he's got to be patient. “You have nothing to lose from this.”

“I might as well,” Cedric says with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Some of my pals from the 134th do take some kibble and bits, but that's it.”

“Uh?” Arthur says, not sure he's following anymore.

“Ritalin,” Emrys tells him, before firing another question at Cedric. “What about the Dorsets?”

“I know no one from the Dorsets.” Cedric shakes his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” Cedric says, and this time he sounds sincere. “I'd remember.”

“And if one of them wanted to get a little bit of something?” Emrys says, waving his hand about. “Who'd they go to?”

“Probably the same guy I do,” Cedric says. “Stands to reason.”

“But none of them ever came up to you asking for a little bit of a tip?” Arthur asks, trying to figure out where Riley got his hands on the drugs that caused the training accident. “Not even in passing?”

“I don't hang with the Dorsets.” Cedric scratches at the side of his nose with his nail. “Sorry.”

Emrys is the one to ask the next question. “Could any of them have heard through the grapevine?”

“Maybe.” Cedric taps his foot on the floor. “Who knows?”

Arthur motions Emrys with his head, Emrys makes a tiny gesture of compliance and says, “That'll be all, Lance Corporal.”

“Am I going to be charged?”

Emrys' mouth thins. “Not this time, no.”

After they've had an orderly in to escort Cedric outside, Emrys stands. He puts his hands on his hips, whirls round. “He's insufferable.”

“Yes.” Arthur finds himself huffing a laugh. “I wanted to kick him in the mouth throughout.”

“He's an utter shit-head,” Emrys agrees, his face getting lined with more than distaste. “He could have cleaned up, for the army. He wanted to be in. There must have been a reason! Instead he seems to have learned nothing.”

Arthur's eyebrows pull upwards and he wants to ask, he does. But he doesn't know Emrys well enough yet. With time, he tells himself, he will. But he doesn't intend to force it now so he changes the subject. “At least we got a contact.”

“A civilian one,” Merlin tells him, eyeing the number Cedric gave them.

“Well, I suppose I need to get in touch with my contact with the Lisburn police,” Arthur says, pinching his mouth. “God knows, I don't like involving them in army business, but it seems there's no other way out.”

 

**** 

 

The office they're ushered into looks like a war zone. There are piles upon piles of folders strewn haphazardly, or together with other loose papers, along the length of an already cluttered desk. More are on the armchair, sitting in precarious columns that are about to crumble. A telephone is perched on top of one of those. More paperwork lies on the floor. The walls are plastered with crime scene pictures pinned in place by rusty pins or scant lengths of sticky tape.

“DI Greene won't be a moment,” the constable tells them before backing out of Greene's office.

Pendragon clears a path to a chair but doesn't sit. “And this is what you get for dealing with civilians.”

Merlin smiles. As a boy, he was not a tidy person, but the army has worked a sense for order into him. These days, he's more likely to understand Pendragon's distaste for chaos than to mock it. “They're not all bad, you know.”

Pendragon makes a face at him and Merlin knows he's not serious at all but rather going for humour. His lips twitch so much he has to look away. It's not a reaction Merlin would have expected of him. He'd taken Pendragon for a fully-fledged-stiff-upper-lip, but apparently he isn't.

Anyway, Pendragon's still busy trying to regain his composure, when a man with a light beard and hair that touches his shoulders comes in. “Ha, the military,” he says, patting his pockets for something. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Greene,” Pendragon says, jaw tensing. “I thought your people were ready to ensure their collaboration and instead, there you are, always making light of things.”

Greene says, grimacing, “Pardon me for not liking working with your kind.”

Merlin clears his throat. “We just need a tip-off.”

Greene studies Merlin, raking his gaze from head to foot. “Well, beaut, if you weren't wearing that uniform I'd do anything for you. But alas.”

Pendragon turns around to snort. His shoulders go up and Merlin sees him fiddle with the knot in his tie before he turns around and says, “You don't want us to go to your superiors.”

“And it might rid you of an unpleasant character,” Merlin adds, just because this might tip the scales in their favour. “You don't want types like our mark around.”

“How?” Greene says, cocking his head up. “You have no jurisdiction over civilians.”

“But we can perform arrests,” Merlin says, hoping Greene will be interested in this kind of cooperation. “If we have reasonable grounds to believe an offence is being perpetrated, and we think we have, we can certainly stop him.”

“Who have you got your eyes on?”

Pendragon strides forwards and hands Greene a slip of paper. “Here.”

Greene unfolds the slip. His eyebrows go up. “I suppose this isn't your phone number.”

“A contact for our dealer.”

“Who's been bothering yours,” Greene guesses. “And you want me to get rid of your problem.”

“Look—” Merlin takes a step forwards. “This is in your best interests you, too. If you get your hands on him you'll stop him from approaching civilians.”

“True.” Greene perks up, eyes lighting with intent. “Say, we get our hands on this dealer of yours, where's the catch?”

“The catch?” Pendragon asks, his lips pursing around the words.

“Yes.” Greene waves about the slip of paper Pendragon gave him. “What would you want in return?”

“A chance with the detainee,” Pendragon says. “We only need answers.”

Greene huffs. “Mmm, these answers, they mean a lot to you, don't they?”

Merlin doesn't see any reason for lying. They're fighting on the same side here, more or less. “Yes. Knowing the truth will clear up matters relating to a training accident.” Merlin heaves in a breath, meets Greene's eyes. “A young man died. The family need to know how.”

Greene's shoulders deflate. “Okay, all right. I'll run this against the data we have and if we have a match, I'll contact you.”

Merlin smiles and Pendragon heaves a sigh or relief.

 

****

 

When Arthur enters his room, Emrys is in nothing but his boxers. He's pale and slender, especially about the flanks and shoulder blades, all long lines. He's wiry though. There's heft to his shoulders, and his arms round fully at the biceps. Despite what must have been a naturally lanky physique, he's in top army form.

When he sees Arthur, Emrys tenses.

Arthur says, “Door was open.”

“I never close it,” Emrys tells him, picking up the wire. “No need.”

Arthur's eyes latch on it. “I don't get why you're the one that's got to do it.”

Emrys' shoulders round with a shrug. “I want to do it. It's all that matters.”

Arthur doesn't see why he would. “Let the police in Lisburn do it. They have more of a measure of undercover ops.”

Emrys tapes the receiver to his flank, but it takes to dangling and looks as though it will come off at the first opportunity. “I've got close protection training. Which means I'm all primed to face a lone dealer.”

“That's not what worries me,” Arthur says, walking over so he's standing behind Emrys. He detaches the dangling receiver and Emrys exhales when he does. He dips his head. “What worries me is your lack of training in going under cover.”

“I just need to pretend I want to buy some dope.”

Arthur palms the small of Emrys' back where his skin is warm and his shirt will fall over. “I need more tape.”

Emrys hisses at the contact, nods. He cuts a length of adhesive tape with his teeth. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says, fingering the length of it. He once again fits his palm along the small of Merlin's back. Then he plasters the tape on, edging the bulk of the receiver underneath it. “How are you even going to pass as a junkie? It takes lot of debriefing to know what to do.”

“Look, I know what to say,” Emrys says, keeping his head down, articulating his fists when Arthur applied another length of tape to his back. “I'll manage.”

“I hope so,” says Arthur, keeping the receiver in place with his fingers so as to make it stick better. “I really hope so because it could get ugly fast.”

“Aren't we getting back-up from the PSNI people?” Emrys asks, handing Arthur the wire over his shoulder. “I'll be fine.”

“I don't trust Gwaine Greene,” Arthur says, plugging the wire into the receiver. “Not even a little.”

“He found us a lead quick enough.” Emrys' skin pebbles when Arthur secures more tape across his back so the wire doesn't show. “He seems competent.”

Arthur hums under his breath as he finishes off wiring Merlin. “He just had to look someone up on their list of offenders. Hardly rocket science. I'm not sure they can pull off this op though.”

Emrys tilts his head back, the muscles in his shoulders pulling. “Or perhaps it's me you don't trust.”

Arthur drops his hands, for some reason missing the warmth Emrys is leaking. “I think you're good at interrogating subjects.” Arthur shifts from foot to foot. “You have the technique of it down.”

Emrys turns around, tilts his head up just so. His breath is hot on Arthur's face when he says, “But you don't think I'm going to do well under cover?”

“Have you even done that before?” Arthur asks, not taking a step back, even though he ought.

“No.” Emrys picks up a shirt from the bed. “But I'm going to pass.”

With Kernow having given the operation a go, Arthur can't say anything more against it, not with Emrys dead set on taking part. The more so since it's just a gut feeling he has, based on the fact he doesn't know how Emrys will react to danger yet. “Right, let's do this then.”

It's cold in the car and DI Green has got the radio blaring on.

“So the receiver's working,” Greene says, closing the lid to the equipment that will allow them to listen in. “And we know he's going to turn up soon.”

Elena tells Emrys, “Remember you have back-up.”

“Yeah,” Emrys says, shifting in his seat. “I know.”

Arthur says, “If you feel things are getting out of hand just say—”

“I know what I have to say,” Emrys tells him, giving him a small smile. He takes a look at his watch, says, “I think it's time.”

Before any of them can put in a word, Emrys has pulled the hood of his jumper on his head and has breezed out of the car. The moment he hits the road, he hunches his shoulders and slips his hands in his pockets.

“Well, he does look the part,” DI Greene comments as they all train their eyes on Emrys.

Arthur must admit Greene is right. With his dusty trainers, ratty jumper and deep slouch, Emrys looks like any other street kid. His muscles are hidden by the folds of his overly large clothing, so he now appears like a lanky teen shuffling forwards on coltish legs. “He doesn't need to win an Oscar for the part. Just make sure he gets King to incriminate himself.”

“For someone in the military he seems pretty resourceful,” says Greene, causing even his police colleague to roll her eyes.

“Actually, we're better trained for—” Arthur starts, but stops when Elena puts her hand on his arm.

“Look,” she says, pointing her chin towards the corner Emrys' wound up in. “He's made contact.”

Arthur leans closer to the window. Emrys has indeed turned the corner and approached a tall dark-haired guy dressed in black leather. The audio they're getting isn't of the clearest, but they can make out what Emrys and King are saying.

“I was told to look for you,” Emrys says, sounding winded, his voice croaky.

“And who told you that?” King says, sounding wary. “Uh?”

“Mates.” Emrys dances from foot to foot, jittery, as though he's on the verge of plunging into a withdrawal crisis. “From Lisburn base.”

“Fuck that,” says King, striding away.

“Fuck that,” Gwaine Greene repeats. “He can't walk away. Where's your greed, King.” He eyes Elena. “We need something we can pin on him! This isn't enough.”

Though Emrys can't hear them, he seems to have realised this on his own. “I just need something to keep me going till the end of the week, mate.”

Something in Emrys' tone makes King stop. “What kind of something?”

“I was thinking...” Emrys' shoulders go up. He jitters about on the spot, sidestepping, backing away, prancing about like a nervous horse. “Some speckled doves would set me straight.”

King saunters back to Emrys, hands in his pockets. From the car Arthur can't read his expression, can't see whether he's bought the act Emrys' selling, but he does relax when King says, “Don't have any of that.”

“Not too bad,” Greene says, slapping his thigh. “Your man's good at passing off as a junkie.”

Arthur's gaze scuds around the car's interior before he pins it once again on the far distance, where Emrys and King are but two small spots dwarfed by the buildings around them.

“Do we have enough?” Greene's colleague asks, gesturing at the radio.

“No,” Greene says, his expression tightening. “All we have is King saying he doesn't have the merch. Can't arrest him with that.”

“Sh, listen,” Elena says.

Out on the street, King says, “If you're ready to experiment I have other stuff.”

Emrys wipes at his nose, sidles from side to side. “I don't want any weird blends, mate.”

“I've got some pips,” King says, hovering closer to Emrys.

Under his breath, Gwaine says, “Get him to show the merch to you.”

“Ach, I'm in for a bad trip, ain't I? Okay fine,” Merlin says, “Fine.”

“You don't want to know for how much they go?”

“Look,” Merlin says, slumping further. “It's not as if I give a shit. I can pay. I'm fine to pay.”

King backs up a step. “Eager, are we?”

“Look,” Merlin says, “I've gone cold turkey too long. I really, really just want your bloody shitty pips. Just give me a good batch that won't send me puking my guts out and we'll be friends.”

King makes a tutting noise. “You haven't even heard the price.”

“Riley said you drive good deals.”

“And who the fuck is that?”

Emrys shrugs one shouldered, his hands still deep in his pockets. “Base type.”

“You know,” King says, taking a few backwards strides, palms up. “Forget it, all right?” With that he sprints off at a run.

“Shit, he got caught,” Arthur says, as he watches Emrys take off after King.

All car doors fly open. Arthur doesn't wait to see what the others are doing, if they mean to give chase or if they intend to ask for back up. He pumps his legs fast, the soles of his shoes slipping on tarmac made sleek by rain. He runs at top speed, comes careening round a corner, before he catches sight of Emrys again. Emrys is currently sprinting down a park lane, trailing after King, who's dashing towards a thicket.

Before he can get there, Emrys catches hold of his jacket and King spins round, wresting himself free. He aims a punch at Emrys' face. Emrys ducks, intercepts the blow with his arm. He makes a grab for King's shoulder, but the man kicks free. Emrys falls back. Too far away to otherwise take part in the action, Arthur yells at him, “Emrys!”

 

  
[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/texasfandoodler/70429176/89325/89325_600.jpg)   


 

But the fight goes on. King attacks, arm straightened into a fist. Emrys deflects with a left-to-right left-hand parry that's right out of a close combat manual and that slides down his opponent's forearm. King wriggles free, however, and instead of making a run for it, he kicks at Emrys. Emrys parries that with his left leg and steps in for a punch that makes King groan loud enough even Arthur, as far away as he is, hears. By now, King must have worked himself into a panic because he flashes a blade. It glints a pearly white in the sombre, overcast day. He slashes down with it.

Arthur can't see whether Merlin's been hit or not. He only sees him dance away from the reach of the weapon.

King rushes him. Merlin backs and backs. King slashes at air. Merlin twists right, raises his knee, kicks the knife from King's hand. A straight-armed hit catches King in the throat. 

Merlin spins half round again, so that he can grab King's arm and twist it behind his back. With the full force of his weight, Merlin gets King to lie flat on his front, face on the wet, shimmering asphalt.

Arthur jogs the last of the stretch over to him. Pins King down with a knee. King struggles, badmouths them, but he can't run anymore, though Arthur doesn't trust him not to pull any dirty tricks. By the time the fight's gone out of King, Greene, his partner and Elena arrive. The two police detectives read King his rights, manacle him.

Winded, Arthur sidles over to Emrys, says, “Once they've had their go at him, we'll question him.”

“Yeah,” Emrys pants. “I really want to...” Emrys hobbles sideways, places a hand on his side. It comes away bloody.

Arthur grabs Merlin's palm. Though it's stained red, it isn't the source. "Fuck,” Arthur says, at the same time Emrys pales and stumbles into a sitting position. “Fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes, Merlin feels bruised and heavy. His body is sore in parts he wasn't aware belonged to his anatomy before; his eyes are puffy and his tongue feels gritty. His thoughts seem to have thinned and he must make a concerted effort to establish where he is. The room is too bright for his hurting eyes, that's for sure.

“Emrys, high time,” Pendragon says. “You've been asleep for more than half a day.”

Swivelling his head doesn't hurt. Point for him. “What happened?”

“King slashed you up,” Pendragon says. “But his Emrys origami project failed. The hospital people patched you up. You'll be glad to know the wound is superficial.”

That's when things start coming back to Merlin. Pursuing King, disarming him, the pain in his side. He moves, winces, but doesn't experience any wave of brighter pain. His gaze lands on the drip taped to his hand and he feels the pull of the needle right under skin. With his free hand he tears the needle from his hand. Blood oozes from beneath the bandage in a circular pool that gets wider and wider.

Pendragon darts out of his chair, tries to staunch the flow with his hand. “What the hell are you trying to accomplish, Corporal?”

“I can't,” Merlin says, trying to push him off, shoulder him away. “They should have asked!”

“You were unconscious!” Pendragon says at the top of his voice. “And there's a five inch gash decorating the length of your side!”

“Yes, well, I don't want any medication,” Merlin says, trying to sit up while Pendragon pressures him back down. “I'll check myself out.”

“You can't do that!”

“Watch me,” Merlin says, his blood ringing loud in his ears, his thoughts shrinking down to the need to get out of here and fast. “I'm just—”

“Merlin,” Pendragon says, and him using his given name is arresting enough for Merlin to stop fighting out of bed. “Merlin, you should stay in hospital. You really need to be around doctors right now.”

“I can't,” Merlin says, pushing his lips together, a wave of shame dizzying him into closing his eyes and lying back against the pillow. “I must get out.”

“Give me a good reason why,” Pendragon says, placing a hand on his shoulder and sitting slantwise across the bed so Merlin will have to jump him to get out of it.

“They didn't ask,” Merlin says, turning his face away, waiting for Pendragon to leap off the bed.

“About administering you drugs?” Pendragon asks, and his tone is so much softer than Merlin had been expecting that he opens his eyes.

“Yes,” Merlin says, pinning his gaze on Pendragon, even if his lungs go small and he burns with the deep burn of shame under skin.

“And that's important,” Pendragon says.

“Yes.”

Pendragon nods his head, his jaw jutting, his lips drawn together. “Because you were an addict.”

“Yes.” Merlin tips his head up. “Yes.”

The silence between them stretches hollowly. Merlin sweats at the temples, his palms dampen, and his heart goes to the size of a small pebble. At last, Merlin forces himself to say the words. “I suppose you'll want me off the team now?”

“How long have you been clean?”

“How do you know I am?” Merlin says, eyes down, tone more raw than he wants it to be.

Pendragon scoffs. “If you weren't. Kernow would have had you booted out the second you requested your secondment with us.”

“Eight years, basically, ever since I enrolled,” Merlin says, centring his gaze on the white mound that were his hospital blankets. “I cleaned up.”

“Good enough for me.” Pendragon drums the pads of his fingers on the knuckles of his laced hands.

“So what happens now?” Merlin asks, his voice going helplessly husky. “Are you going to tell the others? Elena and—”

A long whistling sound accompanies Pendragon's next words, “Really, Emrys, who do you take me for?”

Merlin slumps. “It's not that I think you a gossip, but, let's be honest, most people would.”

“I won't.” Pendragon puts his hand on Merlin's neck, forces him to look up. “I won't. And I won't ask questions.”

Merlin's tongue feels way too fat and heavy for his mouth. “Thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for,” Pendragon says, standing, placing his hands at his hips.

Merlin nods. He wants to say that he's grateful, that this makes a difference, but the words die in his gullet with the breath he can't let out. “I still don't want to stay here.”

“I understand why now,” Pendragon says, looking at the blood stains on Merlin's bandages, at the spots on the bed. “But that's a knee-jerk response. You need someone to look after you.”

“It's just a scratch,” Merlin says, lifting his arms to check whether the stitches will pull. “We risk worse every time we're sent on tour.”

“Yes.” Pendragon inclines his head in agreement. “And if something happened to a soldier in action, he'd be carted off to hospital, where he'd stay.”

“I can't relapse.” Merlin knows he's pleading and would normally rather be seen dead than do it. But this matters more than his feelings or his pride. This comes first. “I can't.”

“All right.” Pendragon waves a hand about. “But you're staying at my lodgings.”

“What!” Merlin scoffs loudly.

“You need supervision, Merlin.”

“I didn't bust my head open.” Merlin pushes his lower lip out. “You don't need to prod me awake every now and then.”

“You need supervision,” Pendragon reiterates as if the repetition's going to work like a charm, have some kind of talismanic power. “you're coming to mine and that's it.”

 

*****

Arthur turns the key in the lock and ushers himself in together with a shower of icy rain. He shakes himself dry and walks into the living room.

Merlin is lying on the sofa under the worst blanket in Arthur's collection, a scratchy army one coming in a mousy colour that reminds Arthur of vomit. The TV is blaring on, but at a very low volume. The lights have been dimmed and penumbra shades most of the room.

Arthur treads as lightly and peeks over at Merlin.

Merlin rouses and says, “I wasn't sleeping.”

“No.” Arthur's lips twitch. “No, you weren't.”

“I wasn't sleeping.” Merlin blinks blearily at him. “I'm fine. I can get back to work tomorrow.”

Merlin looks wan, his face drawn. There are two fine gouges under his eyes that seem to be etched deep in the tracery of his skin. But Arthur doesn't point that out. 

“I can bring the job to you,” Arthur says. “No need to rush back into the saddle.”

Merlin fists the blanket. “Arthur, I can't stay cooped up in here like a caged bird and do nothing. I mean it's been a week, a week of nothing but your four wall. Besides, I feel better already.”

Arthur doubts it. “Without taking anything? I think that's unlikely. You're feeling the pain and we both know it.”

“Meds don't help you heal quicker,” Merlin says, following Arthur around with his eyes. “They only help you feel less uncomfortable.”

“That discomfort isn't making you sleep,” Arthur says, even though he's not sure the pain in and of itself is the sole reason behind Merlin's sleepless nights. “Which isn't making you fit enough for a return to duty.”

“I'll be back at work tomorrow,” Merlin says, putting on an obstinate pout. “That's final.”

Arthur sinks next to him on the sofa. “I think you should decide whether you're okay when you get to it.”

“You know I won't concede. Why don't you bring me up to speed instead?” Merlin says, eyeing the laptop case resting at Arthur's feet.

“What?”

“I'm sure the investigation continued while I was lying here licking my wounds.”

“Well, yes.” Arthur has had a rather stressful day. Without Elena helping him out with some aspects of it he'd have floundered by midday. “But—”

“I want to know what's up with King.”

“All right.” If it helps Merlin take his mind off his worries, Arthur will talk shop till he's hoarse. “Let me make some tea first. Then you'll get the full update.”

Arthur goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. He dunks three spoonfuls of sugar into Merlin's cup and laces his tea with honey. His own is much plainer.

He hands Merlin his mug and places his on the floor. He sets his laptop up on the coffee table.

“So have you solved the case while I was on sick-leave?” Merlin asks, making a face at the laptop.

“We interviewed King,” Arthur says, searching his documents. “I thought you'd like to hear what he has to say yourself.”

“Go right ahead.”

Arthur opens the wav file. He fast-forwards Elena reading King his rights and gets to the more salient moments. 

“Have you dealt drugs to any person on Lisburn base?” Arthur hears himself ask.

“I'm not answering that question.”

“Why?” Elena says. “It would help you. We could put in a good word with the Lisburn police.”

“Do they even listen to you?” Even though this is only a recording, Arthur still experiences a wave of rage at King's attitude. “I don't think they listen to you.”

A dull sound makes the recording crackle. Arthur doesn't tell Merlin it's him slamming his palm on the table. “I wouldn't be so cocky, King. You're not only in trouble because you were caught in possession of drugs, which is enough to get you arrested on a possession with intent to supply charge. No, you also wounded my colleague. And that's a grievous bodily harm charge waiting to happen, the more so since the attack was perpetrated on no less than on an army officer while resisting arrest. There's enough to lock you up for quite a long time.”

There's a sound of springs creaking. Arthur remembers that being from Cenred swivelling his rusty chair back and forth. “And if I talk, what then?”

“If you talk,” Elena says, “we can put a good word in with the police, with the judge.”

“All right.” The drumming of fingers on metal can be heard on tape. Cenred had been taking his time fessing up. “All right. I'll answer.”

No more words are forthcoming and Merlin gives Arthur a look. “Is the interview over?”

“No.” Arthur fiddles with the touch-pad and fast-forwards to a later point of the recording. “Here I've asked him the first question again. This is his answer.”

Cenred's voice is back on. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Military people aren't different from other people, are they? A little bit of snow makes the world go round.”

“Any of the Dorsets ever buy anything from you?”

“Fuck if I know the difference between one of your fancy regiments and the other,” Cenred says.

Papers are shuffled. “Have you ever done business with this man?” Arthur asks, a dull sound follows his question. It's him tapping the photo he'd shown King. “Think carefully.”

“Nah,” King says in a snap of an answer. “I've got a good memory for faces.” King had tapped his temple after announcing as much. “Must have to do what I do. But that bloke. Nah, I never set eyes on him in my life.”

“And you're positive?” Elena asks.

“Yes, how many times do I have to say it?” A thumping sound disrupts the otherwise fine quality of the recording, but then again that had been King kicking his chair. “I don't know the minger.”

“Watch your mouth,” Arthur says, his anger shining through even via WAV file.

“What do you want me to say?” There's a loud huff. “I don't know that bloke.”

There's more sounds like paper being shuffled. “Do you recognise any of these men?”

“Who're they?”

Arthur says, “Answer the question, King.”

“Or?” 

Arthur can still picture the light of defiance that had lit up King's eyes after Arthur'd asked that question. “Or I'll personally see to it that you get the longest sentence possible.”

“I've never seen any of these blokes. Ever.”

Arthur stops the recording. “There's more of it, but it's just King maintaining he's never clapped eye on any of the Dorsets in his life.”

“So, Riley didn't buy the drugs that were found in his system?” Merlin asks, frowning at Arthur's laptop.

“Yes.”

“And you're sure King's not lying?”

“He's got nothing to gain from lying.” Arthur has considered this before. Cenred was caught red- handed. They have proof of his crimes. Naming names isn't going to incriminate him further. “If he proves helpful, he can cut some kind of deal with the police.”

Slowly lifting his gaze to Arthur, Merlin says, “So what we have here is a squaddie drugged up to the gills from drugs he didn't buy.”

“Yes.” Arthur grimaced. “Elyan and Elena are looking into other leads, checking if there's any other dealer we may have overlooked, but at the moment it looks like Riley got his drugs from nowhere.”

Merlin's chin crumples. “There's something that doesn't add up here.”

“This case isn't as straightforward as it seems.” Arthur nods.

“Have you reported this to Kernow?”

“Not yet, I was banking on doing it tomorrow,” Arthur says. “Elena and I finished late with King and Kernow'd got home by then.”

“King was a tough nut to crack, eh?” Merlin's lips quiver into a smile.

Arthur answers with a smile of his own. “Yeah, you can say that.”

“I want to be there when you tell Kernow,” Merlin says, gaze sharpening, going all business again.

“Merlin...”

“I'll be getting back to work tomorrow and that's it.”

They prepare a quick dinner that Merlin insists on helping with, even if he doesn't look healed at all and he's still favouring his side. As he flits from one side of the kitchen to the other, Arthur eyes him with concern. He does it not so much because he thinks Merlin will ruin the food, but because he's waiting for the penny to drop and for Merlin to fold in pain. But he doesn't. He makes a salad, grills a steak that verges on the side of too raw, seasons both. He holds his side all the time but doesn't desist. Arthur arches an eyebrow at him, questioning him with a look, but Merlin plods on.

They don't talk much over dinner because the choice is between discussing base affairs or Merlin's health, and Merlin doesn't look like he wants to tackle either subject. Arthur, for his part, can only nag so far.

There's a tension around Merlin's mouth, his body is coiled in such a way that tells Arthur he doesn't like the scrutiny.

Arthur doesn't really know how to help him. Even though he wishes he had the words to — a magical solution of some kind — he understands he's not equipped to be of assistance. So he bites his lip and lowers his gaze.

Merlin doesn't eat much, shuffles his food around on his plate and steals a look at him from time to time.

Arthur chews on in silence. Afterwards, they watch some TV together, then Arthur leaves the sofa to Merlin so he can sleep there. He certainly looks like he needs some shut-eye, especially if he wants to get back to work tomorrow.

Bones aching, shoulders cramped from the long day, Arthur slips into bed himself. The linens are fresh—if there's one thing he's learned in the military is how to keep his quarters spotless—and the mattress yields to his weight. He's out like a light.

 

***** 

The car races on. He's both inside it and outside it. He can see the road come at them, narrowing between slices of tall building, whose windows gape open like the maw of a giant. The constructions lean one towards the other. He's outside the car, too. He sees flames eat at its exhaust, burn bright and lick higher, encompassing the boot.

“Will,” he says, “you should brake.”

Hands on the wheel, Will turns around. He's face is half covered in blood. It courses down his temple and stains his teeth. His bloody gums are bared when he grins. “We're going to have the ride of our life.”

Merlin knows what's going to happen next. The streets are flashing past in a jumble of concrete slabs, jagged architecture. It's inevitable, really, but Merlin must stop this. He has to. “Will, you need to stop.”

Will floors the accelerator. Merlin's out the car again. He watches it hurtle forwards, and he screams, he screams. But the car goes up in a ball of flames.

Merlin sits up in bed.

 

**** 

 

A regular thumping noise wakes him some time later though. It has a regular tempo — one, two, one two — and it's followed by the skidding of soles on the floor.

Arthur blinks, frowns. Then he remembers. He's not alone, is he? He's sharing with Merlin. So this must be him being loud. Because the house is cold, he slips on a dressing gown and climbs downstairs. He follows the noise to the gym downstairs.

Moonlight filters in through the wood blinds and slants across the room in geometrical patterns. It licks at the soles of Merlin's trainers.

Shifting his weight around, Merlin is punching the punching bag so that it leaps and sways. His breath is coming fast, but his footwork is just as quick.

“Should you be doing that?” Arthur asks, wondering what's possessing Merlin to be active this so late at night even while appreciating his boxing form.

The bag swings under the onslaught of another hit. “Helps me not to think.”

The sack's chains creak. “About what?”

Merlin raggedly gulps in air. Sweat trickles down the sides of his face, making it shiny in the pale light. He grunts, lands another hit but doesn't say anything.

Arthur walks over, grabs the punching bag with both hands, stops it from swaying. “I'll be your sparring partner.”

Merlin arches an eyebrow. “Weren't you sleeping?”

“Wide awake now.”

Merlin lowers his fists from the defensive stance he had them in. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you up.”

Arthur shrugs. “Doesn't much matter. Used to functioning on two hours sleep.”

Merlin gives him a smile. “Basic training memories?”

“Yeah.” Arthur smiles in return, shifts his weight, and moves the punching bag. “I'll hold it.”

“Thanks,” Merlin says before he reprises hitting the bag.

  


  


  
[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/texasfandoodler/70429176/92265/92265_600.jpg)

Merlin continues working the bag. He does it with his knees and with his fists. Arthur starts to work a sweat himself just keeping the bag in place. Merlin's no better off. Perspiration beads his forehead, runs down his front, drenching his shirt and plastering it to his chest.

Arthur watches as Merlin right jabs, left jabs, left knees, and then throws uppercuts at the bag. It shakes. The filling inside shifts and soughs. Merlin dabs at the sweat drenching him with his elbow. He says, “I'm afraid. That's what I'm trying not to think about.”

“What are you afraid of?” Arthur asks, flattening his palms to the sides of the sack.

“Relapsing.” Merlin lays into the the bag with his knuckles, with the heels of his hands. “That's what I'm afraid of. What I've always been afraid of.”

“They gave you one dose of pain-killers.” Arthur's stomach knots up. “Do you think that's likely to happen only because of that?”

“No, I don't know.” He pounds away, a left, a right, and another right till the bag hollows where his fists land. “I don't think so, but it's not a fear I can live without. It keeps me on my toes.”

Arthur stabilises the bag. “You can't live in fear.”

“Sometimes it's healthier than the alternative,” Merlin says between one big puff of breath and the next.

“If you want my opinion, I don't think you will relapse.”

“Why?” Merlin stops hitting the bag, cocks his head at Arthur. “I'm not more special than any other addict. And it doesn't go away — addiction. Not even if you stay clean for a lifetime.”

“No, I know.” Arthur appreciates how this is bigger than him, how he doesn't know anything about the subject. “But I want to... I'm here for you. To help. Whatever you need.”

Merlin's eyes go small. For the first time in days, it's not from worry or pain. He's smiling and crinkles are appearing around them. “That... that's going to make a difference.”

“I'm glad.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur spears him with a surprised look Merlin doesn't comment on. “In for more sparring?”

***** .

The next day they go to Kernow. When they explain their problem to him, Kernow says, “So what do you want me to do about it?”

“We want you to keep the investigation going, sir,” Arthur says, chin up in the air, eyes meeting the Sergeant Major's. “Something doesn't fit and we want to look into it.”

“Emrys?” Kernow asks. “Any input?”

“I'm with Sergeant Pendragon,” Merlin says, giving Arthur a small smile. “We need to find out what happened. Jodrey's family have a right to the answers.”

The Sergeant Major ambles behind his desk, opens a drawer, and picks up a letter. “This is from the Police Area Commander for the Lisburn Area. He thanks us for our help in apprehending Cenred King and hopes our collaboration will be as fruitful in the future.” He folds the letter back. “Given this, I can hardly tell you not to go ahead with your enquiries.”

“Thank you, sir,” Merlin says, straightening. Smiling, he seeks Arthur's eyes to celebrate this victory.

“Thank you, sir,” Arthur says.

“Don't jump the gun,” Kernow tells them. “This means you'll have to start from scratch again.”

“We know,” Arthur says, his gaze shifting onto Merlin again. There's determination in there but also a note of humour at the shared toil they've heaped upon themselves. “We'll do our best to clear matters up, sir.”

 

***** 

 

Arthur stares at the phone on his desk for a long time before he picks up the receiver and dials.

“Arthur,” his father says on the third ring. “How's life in that far outpost of yours?”

“It's hardly that, Father.”

“I spoke to the under secretary and he said they're planning to shut down more bases in Northern Ireland.”

“The Troubles era is thankfully over.”

“Have you thought of my offer then?” Father says, his voice filling with ill concealed enthusiasm. “I can easily find you an interesting posting, a prime one. And you could always go for the Late Officer Entry Course at Sandhurst. You'd come out an officer, as all Pendragons before you, and make the name of your family proud.”

Arthur takes the receiver away from his ear and sucks in a big breath. “Father, they're shutting down Clooney and Ebrington barracks in Derry, not Lisburn.”

“Doesn't mean this isn't a trend.”

“Father,” Arthur says, “I just wanted to ask you how you were doing. It's been a while.”

“That's a pile of nonsense, Arthur,” Father says, in a clipped, terse voice. “How should I be doing?”

“Yes, Father.” Arthur drums his fingers on his desk. “Never mind, Father.”

 

****

 

“So,” Merlin says, leaning against the door. “Not one of the Dorsets had anything new to say.”

“Unfortunately,” Arthur says, sighing deep. “But we must pester them till we get to the bottom of this. Those drugs must have come from somewhere.”

“Yeah.”

“And since it wasn't King and it wasn't Cedric...”

“It must have been someone else.”

“Let's get Mckenna,” Arthur says. “Maybe he'll have something to tell us.”

Merlin isn't certain Mckenna will be the one to speak up, but at this point, they just have to hope he won't keep his cards close to his chest.

Mckenna twiddles his thumb for the longest time.

“So to sum up, according to you, Riley has never used, you've never used, and none of the Dorsets ever have,” Arthur says, pacing up and down. “Yet Riley tested positive and Jodrey's dead.”

“I'm negative, aren't I?” Mckenna says, following Arthur with his gaze. “I'm not lying.”

There's something about the way he says that that makes Merlin believe the lad. “How about strange goings-on?” he asks. “Unrelated to drugs.”

“Strange goings-on?” Mckenna repeats.

“Anything unusual that happened in the past few weeks.”

Mckenna's eyes glint with the light of knowledge, but he swallows and dips his head.

“Something weird has happened, hasn't it?” Merlin says, leaning forward. “Something out of the ordinary.”

“It's got nothing to do with Riley.”

Arthur stops his pacing. “It doesn't matter, Private. Anything slightly untoward — we want to know.”

Mckenna jigs his leg, darts his eyes around.

“Your reticence isn't going to help anybody,” Merlin says. “And it could go on your record.”

“It's about Bedivere.”

Now this comes as a surprise. Merlin looks to Arthur. He looks taken aback too, mouth slack and eyes wide.

“What about Bedivere, Private?” Arthur asks.

“He...” Mckenna drums his fingers on the table. “One night he stole out. I thought it was to see some girl. I wanted some ammunition on him... to rile him a bit, you know, so I—”

Mckenna's skirting around the subject in a way that's making Merlin's insides dance the samba. “So what?”

“So I followed him.”

Merlin has to fight the compulsion to roll his eyes. “And what else? What happened that you still remember it to this day?”

“He was meeting someone,” Mckenna tells them. “But it wasn't a girl from base. And it wasn't a girl from town.”

“So who was it?” Arthur asks, looking as annoyed with Mckenna's beating around the bush as Merlin feels. “Who did you see?”

“I don't know who he was,” Mckenna says, uncurling his fists as if to show them a magic trick. “I only know it was a man.”

“It's allowed,” Arthur says. “Not sneaking them in but—”

“The man wasn't his boyfriend,” Mckenna says. “It wasn't that kind of meeting.”

Now, this is more interesting, Merlin thinks, even if he fails to see what this has got to do with Riley. Unless... “Was he selling drugs to Bedivere? Is that the impression you got?”

“No.” Mckenna shakes his head firmly. “The man gave him nothing. It was Bedivere who gave him something.”

“What did Bedivere give him?”

“It was dark.” Mckenna frowns. “Can't rightly say.”

“Can you at least tell us whether it was a big object or a small object?”

“It looked like a bunch of papers.”

Merlin and Arthur's eyes meet. “Papers?”

“A folder or something,” Mckenna says, brow puckered deeply. “I don't know if there was anything else.”

“And you never thought to ask your friend what he was doing sneaking people into the base to hand them documents?”

“I only know because I was spying on him,” Mckenna says, lifting his shoulders. “I couldn't go up and ask him when that was how I knew, could I?”

“And you only think of telling us this now,” Arthur says, his mouth curling downwards.

“You were asking about Riley and Jodrey before!” Mckenna emits a high pitched squeak. “Not this.”

Merlin bites his lower lip and Arthur massages his temple.

“You don't think Bed's a terrorist or some such, do you?” Mckenna says, eyes slitting.

“It's not for you to know what we think,” Arthur says, his words sounding more like an afterthought than an admonishment. “Understood?”

“Sir!”

“And don't tell Bedivere you told us.”

“Not about to.” Mckenna holds both palms up. “He'd rip me a new one.”

“Private,” Merlin says, his voice stern, though he doesn't much care about Mckenna's swearing habit. It's just that this is the army and you do have to enforce rules from time to time.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Actually,” Arthur says, “I don't want you to breathe a word of what's happened between these walls to anyone at all.”

“Yes, sir!”

When Mckenna's gone, Arthur rounds on Merlin. “This makes things interesting.”

“There's something going on with the Dorsets,” Merlin says, wishing he could put his finger on what exactly. “I think we should investigate all of them.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “Yes, that's what we'll be doing.”

 

**** 

 

They spend the rest of the next two days questioning the Dorsets and going over their statements with a fine tooth comb. This time, they change the nature of their questions. They stop with the Riley angle and with the drugs one, too, and let the soldiers talk about anything they will, anything strange that has happened to the group in the past few months.

They don't gather much, but they do find out some new details that seem inconsequential but that they're happy with. Bedivere wasn't a fan of Jodrey, hadn't been for the past few months. None of them knows why, but they know, and it's downright odd because, 'Bed's a good sort'. Riley has really always been clean, the boys swear, as they all have. None of them knows Cenred King. Never seen the man. They're all positive.

Arthur closes the file he's been reading shut, exhales deep. His eyes burn and his back aches from bending over reams of paperwork. “None of this explains where the drugs Riley took came from.”

“No,” Merlin says, slapping his own folder closed. “No, it doesn't.”

“We can't keep the investigation open without any new info.” Kernow'd kill them. “But I don't like closing it and so much still not fitting.”

“Neither do I.”

Elena knocks on the door. “May I?”

“Come in, Lance Corporal.” After so many hours spent cooped up in the office, Elena's presence is godsend.

Elena strides in, drops a regulation canteen on Arthur's desk.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “And what's that?”

“That,” Elena says, sticking her chest out, “is Riley's canteen.”

Arthur scowls at it. “So?”

“So,” Elena says. “You ordered us to restart the investigation from scratch, right?”

“Yes?” Arthur would really like to know where this is going, because he has a feeling Elena wouldn't be coming to him for nothing. “So what?”

“So I checked the boys' kits.” Elena raises both eyebrows. “At first I thought there was nothing wrong with the equipment.”

“But there was,” Merlin guesses.

Elena half turns towards Merlin. “Indeed. Check the issue number.”

Arthur leans over, picks up the canteen. The tag with the issue number is hanging loose from the neck of the bottle. Arthur gives it a tug and it nearly comes off. “There's something wrong with it.”

Merlin comes over to give the canteen a peek.

Elena says, “You can bet there's something wrong with it. The original label was removed and this other one attached.”

“So Riley's canteen wasn't Riley's?” Merlin asks, thumbing his chin.

“Yes,” Elena says, looking pointedly from one of them to the other.

“Why would someone swap canteens like that?” Arthur asks, thinking aloud.

“It could be an innocent mistake,” Merlin says, picking up the canteen to study it. He upends it, taps it against the desk, checks over the label with the issue number. “Or not.”

“In which case,” Arthur says, “we might be led to believe that someone wanted Riley to use this particular canteen for a reason.”

“Like giving him drugs he was not aware of taking,” Merlin says.

“That's what I thought had happened,” Elena tells them, nodding slowly.

Arthur really wants none of this; he had hoped the truth they were looking for didn't involve this kind of dark secrets. But this is what they have to work with. And though it's a huge complication, it's certainly not something they can ignore. “This has ramifications and quite a lot of them.”

“If it wasn't an accident,” Merlin says, face paling quite visibly, “then this might be a case of wilful murder.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Arthur cautions him. “First of all, we need to find out whose canteen was swapped for Riley's.”

“And then look into motive,” Merlin says.

“We'll have to check the victim's past,” Elena says. “Go over his history.”

“Yes, and yes.” Arthur nods at the two of them. “And question the Dorsets again.”

“God.” Merlin slumps on Arthur's desk, palms his forehead. “Wilful murder. That's not something I was expecting.”

 

*****

Arthur kills the engine. “Are you sure you want to get back to your quarters tonight?”

“Yes.” Merlin bobs his head. In the dark, his profile looks gaunt, the lines of it starker. He's been worked thin, thinner than he was when he first got to the base and that's saying a lot. “Pretty sure. Kernow would have my hide if he knew I'd shacked up with my boss for the past twelve days.”

“We're a team, Merlin.”

“We're in the same chain of command, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, dipping his head. “People'd read it as something this isn't.”

Arthur inhales sharply. “You're not well yet.” He can see it in the way Merlin holds himself. At work he's energetic and full of initiative, all about the case. But once they're off duty, he slumps and gets that haunted look in his eyes. Arthur can scarcely bear to think Merlin's going to be bearing the burden of all that is haunting him alone. “I think even Kernow would agree that for you to be alone...”

Merlin turns his head. Arthur can't see much in the failing light, but he can tell his gaze has softened into something that's mollifying Arthur's bones. “Thank you. Very few people have ever...”

Arthur wants to know what Merlin means, but he doesn't want to press.

Merlin speaks on regardless. “Very few people have been so accepting of me while knowing what my past's been like. My mum has always been there for me and that's about where the list ends.”

“That's absurd,” Arthur finds himself saying. There's no way he can articulate what he means without telling Merlin that that's inconceivable, because, besides being an excellent soldier, Merlin's a great bloke, and wanting to give him a hand should come natural. But he can't exactly do that, so he says, “People have too little faith nowadays.”

Merlin laughs. “Or maybe there should be more like you around.”

Arthur blushes, chuckles, clears his throat. “We ought to get out of the car.”

Arthur pushes the door open. He's pocketing his keys, when Merlin calls out. “I was being honest, you know. If the world was full of Arthur Pendragons, it'd be a better place.” Merlin's eyes crinkle. “More boring but better.”

“Oh, shut your mush.”

He's helping Merlin packing by the time they approach the same subject again. “The one person I would have trusted with it... is dead.”

Arthur straightens. “Did they die in action?”

“No.” Merlin balls socks into his overnight bag. “He... was my best mate growing up. A good mate.”

Arthur doesn't want to interrupt the flow of Merlin's words, so he makes a noise to signal he's listening.

“His dad had hiked when he was a kid, just as mine had.” Merlin throws a few shirts into the bag. “We had a lot in common that way. So we got really tight.”

“And...”

“He was the one who started with the drugs,” Merlin says, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “When my mum found out about me, she blamed him, but the truth is he wasn't the one who pushed me.”

“Then how?” Arthur asked, colouring, feeling he understands Merlin's mother's point of view. “I'm not getting it.”

“He warned me against doing it.” Merlin makes a face that's half a smile of pride, half a moue of pain. “But I wanted to be like him.”

“So you started using.”

“Yes.” Merlin winced. “Slippery slope.”

“I— I don't know what to say.”

“There's nothing to say,” Merlin says, looking at his palms. “Will warned me off. Said he didn't want me to end up in the same place as him. But I would listen to no one.”

“But if he was such a role model why didn't you listen to him?” Arthur asks, not understanding how Merlin can justify his friend.

“I thought my life was crap,” Merlin says, with a shrug of his shoulders. “And it was in some ways. Dad gone, neighbourhood not so good, the scary way.” Merlin cracks his knuckles, folds and unfolds his hands. “In others, not really. I had my mum, a good friend. But I was being a moody teen...”

“Why did you stop?” Arthur asks, even though he knows he probably shouldn't.

“Will...” Merlin's voice breaks. “Will died. He took a car.” Merlin's Adam's apple dipped. “He stole a car. Crashed it. He was...”

“High?” Arthur suggests.

“Yes.” Merlin nods slowly. “He died. It was my wake up call.”

“So that's when you overhauled your life.”

“A family friend who was a doctor...” Merlin says. “He started me on a recovery group. When I was all cleaned up, I enrolled in the army and it's kept me steady.” 

Arthur kneels before Merlin, puts a hand on his knee. “Good choice. You're a good soldier.”

Merlin's eyes become huge and bright. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. 

It's not just way Merlin's been conducting the investigation. It's his insights, his tact that have enabled him to do good detective work; but those personality traits are also the ones that make him a good man. 

“Yes, you are,” Arthur says it again, as if it's a mantra.

“So you no longer think I'm better off the team?”

“I think,” Arthur says in spite of the way his throat feels clogged, “that the team's better off for having you.”

Merlin huffs, then smiles. “I guess that means I'll have to work harder. To show you my real mettle.”

“You don't—”

Merlin squeezes Arthur's hand before standing up. “I do. I do.”

 

****

 

Mckenna leaves the room and Bedivere replaces him.

Arthur cautions Merlin with a raised eyebrow. Merlin lowers his own gaze to tell Arthur he's got it. He knows what he ought to mention and what not. “Please take a seat.”

“Haven't we answered all your questions by now?” Bedivere asks, placing his hand on the back of the chair but not sitting.

“Let's say that the parameters of our investigation have shifted a little,” Merlin says, knowing Arthur will be proud of how well he's equivocating. “We need you to answer some new questions.”

“Ask away,” Bedivere says.

“Have you even done anything that goes against army regulations?” Merlin asks.

Bedivere opens his mouth and lets out some air. He laughs the fakest laugh Merlin's ever heard and says, “I must admit to some infractions.”

Merlin can't tell whether Bedivere's reacting to being asked that particular question or having something to hide. “Ordinary ones?”

Bedivere shrugs. “What's that got to do with the accident?”

“I don't know,” Merlin tells Bedivere even while he trails Arthur with his gaze. Arthur nods and Merlin goes on. “You tell me.”

“Nothing,” Bedivere says, “It's got nothing do with it.”

“No, of course not,” Merlin says.

“Ranulf made a mistake,” Bedivere says, his gaze boring into Merlin. “That's all that it was.”

“So you don't think Riley wanted to kill Jodrey?”

Bedivere scoffs. “That's what you want to pin him for? Murder? It was just an accident!”

“That's what you think?” Merlin asks.

“That's what I know!” Bedivere says. “Riley had no reason to hurt Jod.”

Arthur leans close to Bedivere, hands on the table, mouth to his ear. “But someone else has?”

“Maybe, yeah.” Bedivere's shoulders round defensively.

“Who had reason, Bedivere?”

Bedivere opens his mouth, but at first only a strangled noise comes from it. At length, he says, “I don't usually speak ill of the dead...”

By this point, Merlin really wants to choke Bedivere with his two own hands, but he doesn't let that show. “But...”

“But Jod was the type to—” Bedivere makes a hand gesture. “Take 'em and leave 'em.”

“So, you're saying what?” Arthur asks, his mouth a tight line. “That one of his jilted exes managed to have a say in what went on during a field exercise?”

“I'm not saying anything.” Bedivere raises his shoulders. “You're the ones investigating. I'm only suggesting you look into his girls. Especially Eira.”

“Eira?” Merlin asks, even though he's heard the name before and knows who they're talking about. What he doesn't know is the girl's background. The details. And here's someone who can supply them to him.

“She's a girl from Lisburn,” Bedivere says. “Sings at the Rising Sun and other places. Jod dumped her quite recently.”

“That doesn't seem to warrant suspicion,” Arthur says and Merlin's got to give it to him, he really knows how to jostle an interrogation along, how to get his answers. He just challenges the witnesses' view, and in doing so gets them to talk. “Does it?”

“Well, she was really bitter about it,” Bedivere says. “But perhaps that means nothing.”

Arthur says, “You'd better spit everything you know out, none of this vague claptrap.”

“Let's just say she left him a few threats on voicemail.”

“What kind of threats?” Merlin asks.

“The usual.”

“Act as though we don't know what the usual is,” Arthur says, his eyebrows converging.

“She'd cut his balls off.” Bedivere rolls his eyes. “She'd make him pay.”

“And you didn't think to tell us this?” Arthur widens his eyes.

“It was unconnected,” Bedivere says, holding his palms up. “Besides, who believes that kind of shit. It was just empty threats.”

“You're positive they were?” Merlin asks, not so much because he has already formed an opinion on the subject, but because he wants to glean everything he can from Bedivere. “That they were groundless threats?”

“That's what I thought at the time.” Bedivere scrunches his mouth. “And that's what I still think.”

“I suppose you have no evidence of these threats,” Arthur asks.

“Course not!” Bedivere shakes his head. “It wasn't as if Jodrey was sending me copies of his texts.”

And that makes Bedivere no longer useful. “Thank you,” Arthur says. “That'll be all we need from you.”

Bedivere leaves with a relieved look on his face. 

Merlin cocks his head at Arthur. “Shouldn't we have asked him about his infractions? What Mckenna was going on about?”

“He would have lied.” Arthur walks to the door, puts a hand on the handle but doesn't open it. “You know he would.”

Merlin can see that Arthur's right. Bedivere was still somewhat too self-assured to give himself away so easily. “Yeah, so what do we do?”

“Pit them one against the other.”

Merlin winces. “Isn't that morally wrong?”

“For the innocent ones?” Arthur asks, his face stony. “Yes. But it's likely someone put drugs in Riley's canteen. A soldier is dead. We need to find the person responsible for the accident, Merlin.”

Merlin exhales hard. “No, I know. You're right.”

Arthur looks down. “Your feeling wrong-footed about this is a testimony to your morals — the integrity of your character.”

Arthur's words drop-kick Merlin's heart to his stomach, chafing his blood into coursing quicker. Merlin rubs at his neck, lowers his gaze. “I hardly think I'm that good of a person,” Merlin says, wandering over to the door to invite their next witness in. “You know what I am.”

With a slow move Arthur places a hand on his wrist, stops him from opening the door. “Just because you had a difficult past, doesn't mean you aren't a good soldier, a good man.”

Merlin's head snaps up. He studies Arthur's face. His eyes are clear and he doesn't twitch or jerk at all. He seems to believe what he's saying. It's no consolation prize, no word of encouragement spoken for the sake of a colleague's morale. It's his real opinion. That's more staggering and terrifying than anything Merlin's heard of before — this faith.

He clears his throat. “Let's get the other lads in.”

Mordred seems the calmest of the Dorsets. His eyes don't roam the room for a way out. He doesn't jiggle his limbs or shift frequently. When asked about Jodrey, he says, “Tell me what you want to know and I'll try to help, sir.”

“Did any one of your fellow soldiers have any reason to bear a grudge against Jodrey?”

“Jodrey had his quirks,” Mordred answers after he's thought the question over for a while. “But nobody would try and harm him.”

“How about someone outside the Dorsets?” Merlin says, hoping Mordred's camaraderie wouldn't affect the answer to this question.

“I can't think of anyone,” Mordred says, speaking slowly, meeting Merlin's eyes dead on.

“Not even the girls he jilted?” Arthur asks, laying it on thick.

Mordred blinks. “There are hardly as many as you think there are.”

“How many are there then?” Merlin presses.

“I'd say...” Mordred mumbles slowly under his breath. “Two or three.”

Arthur's the one to take up this line of questioning. “How about the threats?”

“They were probably empty.” Mordred's shoulders converge. “You know how it works.”

They dismiss Mordred, but before he's out of the room, Arthur fires his next question. “How about Bedivere?”

Mordred freezes in his tracks. “Bedivere.”

“Yes.”

Mordred's eyes go a notch wider. “You don't think...”

Seeing a chink in Mordred's armour, Merlin goes in for the kill. “What should we think, Private?”

“You can't think he killed Jodrey.”

“How about doing anything against regulations?”

“Bedivere wouldn't.” Mordred's mouth firms in a thin line. “None of us would.”

Arthur's eyes flash but he doesn't detain Mordred any longer. “You can go, Private.”

When Mordred's gone and they've nearly no more Dorsets left to put through the grinder, Merlin slumps against his chair. Without thinking he palms his side. It's not so much because it hurts a lot. It does so in dull waves that are very bearable. The drying scabs are scratchy though and that's why he can't suppress the urge to touch his flank.

“We're calling it a day,” Arthur says, observing the motion.

“I'm fine.”

“You're not fine.” Arthur closes the file he'd been perusing, and sends his chair scuttling back. “You're going home.”

“Arthur—”

“We need to be on top of our game, Merlin,” Arthur says. “I'm not doing you any favours here.”

Merlin nods. He's starting to lose focus and he's not as fresh as he was this morning. He may make a mistake and that's not what they need in an investigation as serious as this one is. “We'll leave the last few for tomorrow.”

Arthur nods. “Let me walk you to your quarters.”

“There's not need.” Merlin's neck heats up. “Honest.”

“Indulge me.”

They walk to barracks together, moving at the same pace. They don't discuss the case, or themselves. Arthur brushes close to him, shoulder to shoulder, head down, hands in his pockets.

Merlin doesn't feel as though there's anything wrong with that, with the silence, with the quiet between them.

They get to Merlin's door. “I'd invite you in for a beer, but I don't have alcohol.”

“That's fine.” Arthur sidles from foot to foot. “That's fine.”

Merlin chuckles, hurries on to say, “But I can make you a decaf coffee.”

“I'll have that.” Arthur smiles.

“Good.” Merlin opens the door with a twist of the knob. “Good. Come in.”

While Arthur takes a seat at the edge of his bed, Merlin goes to fiddle with the coffee machine. He puts a filter in the basket and spoons coffee into it. Though it tastes rather swampy, he pours tap water into the carafe and presses the 'on' button. Before long, the coffee has brewed and he can serve Arthur a mug of decaf Americano.

When he does, their fingers brush. Merlin looks at Arthur while Arthur stares at the point of contact, swallows, then levels his eyes on the floor. “Thank you.”

Juggling his own cup in hand, Merlin sprawls on the rug at the foot of his bed and watches Arthur take a sip.

The moment Arthur swallows the brew is the moment Arthur grimaces. "It, um, tastes intense."

Though he's warmed by Arthur's valiant attempt at politeness, Merlin chuckles and shakes his head. "You can say it, you know. It's shitty coffee. I made you shitty coffee."

"Honestly, I've had much worse," Arthur says, making a point of drinking some more even though his cheeks pull with disgust. "In Winchester, for one. Phase One Basic Training." Arthur takes another brave swill of his coffee. "I had a sadist for a drill instructor. He honest to God felt pleasure in pushing recruits beyond their limits—and not just in a test-their-mettle way. Total psycho."

"Know the type," Merlin says, partly because he does—he suffered at the hands of many a one— and partly because Arthur's never talked so openly to him before and he wants that to continue.

"He'd barge into out dorms at three-thirty in the morning, yelling, jostling everyone out of the rack as if World War III was about to break out," Arthur says, his eyes shining as he tells the tale, "when our scheduled wake-up call time was at five."

Merlin groans sympathetically, watches Arthur keenly as he revels in his own tale.

"And you know how vital that hour and a half is—"

"It's key." Merlin hums in agreement. "The one thing between you and nervous breakdown."

"Exactly." Arthur toasts him with his mug. "This instructor from hell would then get us on whatever drill he'd planned for the day and exact his toll: his favourite was a five mile run during which he'd hose us."

"Fun."

"Or fixed circuits with each station flooded by mud. You had to wade, jump, do reps, while he shouted the countdown at you together with choice insults." Arthur meets Merlin's gaze, a half smile on his lips. It's gentle, reminiscent. "So by the end of the exercise, we'd all want some bloody coffee. But the canteen served the worst coffee ever. It tasted like mud." Arthur goggles comically at him. “Like pure horse shit. But we'd still quaff it down for the sugar and caffeine rush.”

Merlin laughs softly. He can definitely picture Arthur in his green days, clinging to little comforts to get him through the first stages of basic training. Merlin himself hadn't been too dissimilar back in the day, though in his need to make it into the army he had been ready to give up on the most basic of comforts. He thinks he's wiser than that now, but his own backstory doesn't explain Arthur's. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Arthur tips his mug and swigs from it, his eyes focused on Merlin. “Of course you can ask.”

“Mmm.” Merlin watches Arthur from under his lashes, desultorily swirling the coffee in his cup. “Elena told me your father is a general. Why didn't you take the easy way out? Why didn't you go to Sandhurst?”

“Training to become an officer is hardly easy.”

“Easier than working your way up from the ranks when you're...” Merlin gestures with his cup and its contents very nearly slosh outwards. “You know.”

“I'll tell you a story,” Arthur says, sitting up straighter. As he talks, he brushes his knuckles along the length of the mug. “This was 1999. NATO had intervened in the Kosovo War and British troops had been deployed in the area as part of KFOR. I was fourteen back then and watched the news like a hawk for info about the conflict.”

“I was ten at the time,” Merlin says. “So I was only vaguely aware.”

“Well, I only was because I”—Arthur takes a deep breath—“feared something would happen to my father when he was on tour and the habit stuck even when he was at home.” Arthur cradles the mug between his hands, studies the content. “Besides, I was bound to in a military household.” Arthur pauses, licks his lips. “I remember sitting on this chair while my father was putting on his dress uniform to go to Whitehall. He had an appointment with some bigwig or other from the Ministry of Defence. Even I knew it was important.” He clears his throat. “The TV was blaring on and it was just the news, you know. I had no idea what they were saying.”

“I don't even know how you remember all of this, let alone what they were talking about.”

“That's because.”—Arthur pulls down the corners of his mouth.—“of what happened next. They broke news of a hit we took. People who belonged to my Father's regiment died. Six of them. You should have seen the look in his face. It was like a blow to his honour. He was gutted. Because he wasn't there.”

“I don't know what to say—”

Arthur meets Merlin's eyes. “Now don't get me wrong: my father's life is the army.”

Merlin, for his part, hopes that Arthur's father's life isn't only that, that there's room for his son in it, but doesn't say it. “I wasn't trying to imply your father isn't a good officer.”

“He is,” Arthur says. “He'd give his life for his men, for his country, and for his family name. I know for a fact that he has led his boys and girls out of very dangerous situations, risking his hide in the process. If the occasion requires it, he'll always put himself in the firing line.”

“I don't doubt it.”

“But that day he was busy polishing his dress uniform while his men were dying.” Arthur's gaze becomes two times more penetrating than before. “He's never forgotten and neither have I. I don't want to be in that position, ever. If something happens, I want to be there, helping. ”

Emotion closes Merlin's throat and for the longest moment he can't speak. At last, he says, “You know what the difference between you and your father is?”

“Merlin—”

Merlin knows Arthur's about to caution him against saying what he means to, but, however imprudent, he ploughs on before Arthur can stop him. “Your father is a good soldier. You're a good man.”

“Merlin, I don't—”

Merlin raises himself to his knees and places a hand on Arthur's knee. “No, I mean it.”

“I betrayed him in more ways than one,” Arthur says, his gaze a fraction more wide-eyed.

“No, you didn't,” Merlin says, wishing Arthur would see it like he does. “You followed your heart and that's all a man can be expected to do.”

Arthur bows his head and puts his hand on top of Merlin's. “I—” He leans forward, his palm radiating warmth. He teeters on the edge of a held breath, sways further forward, but then drops his hand and slumps back. “Thank you.”

With a small sigh, Merlin falls back to his haunches. “Why? What for?”

Arthur lifts his shoulder. “Your words.”

Merlin pastes a smile onto his face. “Solidarity between comrades.”

“Right.” Arthur dips his head. “Right.”

“Arthur—” Merlin inhales deeply.

Arthur's head comes up in a snap. “Yes?”

A well of sensations sways Merlin into a sense of confusion, till he doesn't know up or down anymore. He blanks on an appropriate reaction, so for something to do he taps the side of his cup with his knuckles. “I was wondering if you wanted some more coffee?”

“Thank you, but—”

Merlin tries and coaxes a smile out of Arthur. “But my coffee turned you off the thing forever?”

“No,” Arthur says, pushing to his feet. “I was going to say it's late and we have an early start tomorrow.”

“Oh right,” Merlin puts his cups down. “Well, then I'll...”

Arthur dances from foot to foot. “I had a nice time of it.” He makes for the door. “See you tomorrow, all right?”

“Right,” Merlin says, opening the door for Arthur, He feels strangely hollow and cold, and like his organs have shifted about in his body. “Right, see you tomorrow, Arthur.”


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur smiles when Merlin comes in the next morning. “Just the man I wanted.”

Merlin stops short, opens his mouth.

Arthur lowers his head. “I have a job for you.”

“Oh.”

“I want you to join Elena in the questioning of Eira Williams.”

“You're not leading?” Merlin asks, mouth and brow puckered.

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “You are.”

“I am?” Merlin takes a step back. “Really?”

“Yes.” Arthur bobs his head. “Elena has not finished her attachment yet. You'll take the lead.”

“How about you?”

“We need a girl there,” Arthur says, relaying his plans to Merlin. “If only to get Eira Williams to let down her guard.”

“And you think it'll work?”

“I don't know.” Arthur has considered the issue long and hard before coming to his decision. “It might. She might feel more willing to open up if she sees another woman.”

“What if she doesn't?” Merlin asks, sitting across from him. “What if this tactic doesn't change anything?”

“Elena is a very good investigator in her own right,” Arthur says, thinking of her track record. “She'll make good on this.”

“So why aren't you taking my place?” Merlin asks, the lines on his forehead multiplying.

Arthur shakes his head. “Because you're quite good at what you do and I trust you to do it well.”

Merlin's eyes brighten and Arthur can't take it, needing to look away so as not to be affected.

“Thank you,” Merlin says. “I won't let you down.”

Arthur wants to say that he's positive Merlin won't, that he's got faith in him. He wishes he could tell him he should believe in himself, too. But he can't do that without thinking hard on how he wants to say that. Before he can, Merlin's gone looking for Elena.

 

**** 

 

The house is a brick semi-detached with a sloping roof.

“Is this the address?” Merlin asks as he eyes the building.

“Yes,” says Elena, shutting the ignition off. “This is it. Why?”

“Just having deja-vu feelings,” Merlin says, stooping over the dashboard to have a better look at the place. “There's something about council housing that speaks to my heart.”

“I don't get whether you're joking or serious,” Elena asks, getting out of the car.

“A bit of both,” Merlin says, following her to the white lacquered door.

When she opens the door, Eira is balancing a laundry basket on her hip. She's wearing saggy jeans and a hoodie, and make-up fit for a night out, though it's all smudged. The dry once-over she gives Elena and Merlin is by no means welcoming and completes the picture of sullen animosity. “You're from Lisburn Base.”

“Yes.” Merlin nods. “Corporal Merlin Emrys.” He angles his body to advertise Elena's presence. “Lance Corporal Gawant, 174 Provost Company, SIB.”

Eira raises an eyebrow. “I don't suppose you have a warrant card.”

Merlin knows Eira's buying time, but he does show her his warrant card. Elena does the same.

Eira puffs air through her mouth. “I suppose you want in?”

“We could talk outside,” Merlin says, eyeing the street. “Though it would be more comfortable to do it inside.”

“I don't give much of a shit about your comfort.” Eira shifts her weight, adjusting the laundry basket against her other hip.

“All right,” Merlin says. “Let's have this discussion here.”

“We most certainly can.” Elena gives him a nod.

“Why don't we start with this,” Merlin says, taking a tiny notepad and pencil out of his uniform's front pocket. “Did you buy drugs to give Private Ranulf Riley?”

Eira's face hardens, but Merlin spots the spark of fear in her eyes, recognising the posturing she's doing and how her straight-back, white-knuckled pose is all so she can do to come across as strong and unconcerned. “We can talk in the kitchen.”

The kitchen is a mess. A pile of greasy dishes sits in the sink, the reds and yellows and oranges of various sauces smearing the rims of the plates. Blue bottles flies are pawing the draining board and whizzing in circles over the sink. Cups stained at the bottom with the dregs of old coffee clutter the table.

Eira deposits the laundry basket on it, too, then leans against it, arms folded. “What did you want to ask me?”

Merlin shoots Elena a look.

She asks, “How well did you know Geraint Jodrey?”

“We were together for a while.” Eira's mouth twists. “But then again, I'm sure his mates told you that.”

Elena says, “Yes.”

“They all agreed your relationship to Private Jodrey wasn't rosy,” Merlin says, waiting for the explosion, the reaction.

It doesn't come. Not in the shape Merlin thought it would manifest. “You can bet it wasn't. He had side pieces.”

“You mean he cheated?” Elena asks.

Eira rounds on her, giving a harsh laugh. “He didn't just cheat. He'd fuck anything that moved.”

“That mustn't have been pleasant,” Elena says, sitting down as though she's been invited over for tea. “Not a little bit.”

“It bloody wasn't,” Eira says. “At first, I thought he'd change.”

“But he didn't,” Elena says, inclining her head.

“No. He was wired like that.” Eira's face tightens, her cheeks hollowing, and she pales. “So I had to take it and take it.”

“That seems like something that would be hard to do.”

“Yeah.” Eira lets out a breath. “It came to a point I wanted to kick his fuck in.”

Merlin steps in. “Would you have considered killing him?”

Eira flattens her mouth. “I hope you're joking?”

“Not in the least.” Merlin makes his face as hard and unreadable as he can manage. Only the thought that she might have had a hand in killing a man helps him put up that front. “I'd appreciate an answer.”

“You really think someone killed Geraint?” She pushes off the table and stands chest to chest with him. “That it wasn't an accident?”

Merlin can't answer that question, but he does make a mental note of Eira's reaction, her behaviour. “Still waiting for that answer.”

“I dumped him,” Eira says. “That's what I did when I got fed up with his fucking around.”

“And the threats?” Merlin asks.

Elena reformulates. “Some of Geraint's friends say you sent him threatening texts.”

“Bollocks,” Eira says, or rather spits out, venom in her tone and in her eyes.

“We found his mobile though,” Merlin says, producing an item similar to the one Jodrey possessed before pocketing it again. “And the texts are all there.”

Eira starts forward, checks herself. “I was angry.”

“Angry enough to do him harm?” Merlin asks.

Elena chimes in. “Being cheated on again and again could do that to a person.”

“One with a quick temper would surely do it,” Merlin says, looking down at Eira's flashing eyes.

“I'm not stupid, you know,” Eira says, holding her chin up. “I wouldn't have really thrown my life away to get him done in. He could stew in his own juices for all I cared.”

“So you have no hand in his death?” Merlin asks.

“None whatsoever.”

“And you never bought drugs to give Riley?”

Eira looks away. “I may have a drink or two between sets, but I have no drug problem. I'm not that kind of person.”

Merlin looks down at his boot laces. “No, of course not.”

Elena brushes arms with him. “Eira, I want you to think long and hard before you answer my next question.”

Eira doesn't look too chuffed, her jaw set hard, but she tilts her head in assent.

Elena continues. “You only wanted to dump him, maybe threaten him a bit because that'd teach him, right?”

“Right.”

“But can you think of anyone who'd have wanted him dead?”

Eira's eyes widen. “Geraint could be a piece of shit with women and, frankly, I kept asking myself how you army people could put up with him, but I can't think of anyone who'd seriously have it in for him to the point they'd...”

Eira's voice breaks and she sobs into her open hand. “He was a little shit, but he didn't deserve that.”

“No.” Merlin privately agrees. “Of course not.”

When Merlin finds Arthur, he's standing with his legs apart, his arms stretched before him. Protective goggles shield his eyes as he aims.

When Arthur shoots, pieces of cardboard fly off the target, leaving round bullet holes in their place.

From where he is Merlin can't tell how Arthur's scored, but he can glean he's done well. The moment Arthur takes his protective gear off, Merlin gets rid of his own and walks to him.

  
[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/texasfandoodler/70429176/93833/93833_600.jpg)

“Show off.” He smiles at the target while looking sideways at Arthur.

“I'm a good shot.” Arthur puts his gun down.

“And you had to carve a diamond shape out of the mark to prove that?”

“I'm a very good shot.” Arthur waggles his eyebrows.

“Bampot.”

“That's just your jealousy talking.”

“I'll have you know my aim is very good.” Merlin grins. It comes easy, worry lifting off his shoulders like a storm cloud dissolving.

“So how did things go with Ms Williams?”

Merlin shifts his weight. “She's innocent.”

Arthur's eyebrow grazes his hairline. “One interview and you're sure that's true?”

Merlin dips his head. “Of course not. And we're not even sure what charge we're looking into yet, but—” Merlin sighs.

“But—”

“I think she still loves him,” Merlin says. “She covers that with a lot of bluster and aggressiveness, but I think she still does.”

“And you're sure some of that aggressiveness didn't go into planning Jodrey's death?”

Merlin hums as he considers this again. He's done nothing else in the drive to the base. “We're assuming the canteen swap is at the origins of what happened to Jodrey, don't we?”

“Yes.” Arthur studies him attentively. “But then you know that.”

“How could she get her hands on it?”

“She had friends in the military,” Arthur says, supplying an explanation Merlin has considered.

“So she'd have an accomplice?”

“If they knew what they were doing.” Arthur jerks his head in a nod. “Then, yes, they'd be an accomplice.”

“No, this doesn't fit,” Merlin says. “She sent him threats, threats that are on record. That's impulsive behaviour.”

“And you think that's not in line with orchestrating a fake training accident?”

“No. Not at all.”

Arthur gives him an appraising look. “Would she be capable of doing it, though? In principle?”

“She's not an idiot,” Merlin says. “But my money is on she didn't do it.”

“I believe in your hunch.”

Merlin feels the smile spread across his face.

“But we won't rule it out until we know what happened.”

“Yes, sir.” Merlin salutes.

 

**** 

The noise laps at his consciousness. Arthur turns around, buries his head under the pillow. The noise persists, but Arthur chases the dream. The last shrill sound is what wakes him. He catapults himself out of bed.

He doesn't even bother with putting anything on, stays in his shirt and boxers, and thunders downstairs. He opens the door, but there's no one on the threshold. But if he squints against the darkness, he can see someone bounding down the drive.

“Merlin, is that you?” Arthur calls out.

The figure stumbles to a halt, turns around. “Yeah, yeah, it's me, Serge.”

“It's...” Arthur didn't bother checking his alarm clock before coming down, but he does know it's very late. “What, 2 am?”

Merlin lowers his head, scrubs his nape. “Later actually.”

“Merlin, are you...” Arthur hesitates, not knowing which words are going to be the right ones. “Are you in trouble?”

Merlin trots into view, the light from Arthur's flooding around him. “No. Actually, I'm fine.”

“Are you certain?”

Merlin smiles, bounces off his feet, and says, “Yeah, yes. I'm fine. I couldn't sleep, but it wasn't because I was troubled. I'm fine.”

“I'm glad you are.” Arthur relaxes his shoulders.

“I was feeling like doing something,” Merlin says, clapping his hands together. “So I thought I'd go for a run.”

It's actually the first time Arthur notices that Merlin isn't dressed in fatigues, but in a joggers and shirt combo. “In the dead of night?”

“I was feeling nostalgic about my training drills days?” Merlin hints at a smile. “But maybe you don't feel the same what with that instructor from hell of yours.”

“No actually, looking back, I'm quite fond of that time of my life.”

“Really?” Merlin studies him as if to check with him that it's the truth.

“Yeah.”

Merlin inclines his head. “Well, then I was wondering if you'd like to come along? Have a jog with me?”

Arthur worked till nine o' clock and put in some extra hours going over the backgrounds of the Dorsets. He's got an early shift tomorrow and should by all rights go back to sleep so he can be up by six-thirty. But instead he says, “Give me a moment and I'll change.”

They jog along one of the tracks that leads off the base and into open country. The tarmac portion of it is wet with rain, slick under the soles of Arthur's trainers, the wet patches glimmering in the moonlight. The beaten track that extends past the the perimeter wall is muddy, the ground yielding under their shoes.

They keep pace, Arthur brushing shoulders with Merlin. He regulates his breathing patterns on Merlin', his foot falls on the flat of his sole at the same time Merlin's does. From time to time he watches Merlin. He seems relaxed, into the moment. There's a measure of brightness to him that not even his worries have erased.

When they're past the five mile mark, they stop, hands on knees. They straighten, Merlin leans against a tree. Arthur comes over to him. He places his hand on Merlin's shoulder, cocks his head, and moves close. He seeks Merlin's mouth with his. 

“Am I wrong?” he asks, breath coming fast, pumping out of lungs that feel like they're on the verge of collapsing.

Merlin's mouth moves against his, rubs and nudges at his. “No. You're not wrong.”

Arthur pushes his tongue into Merlin's mouth, touches Merlin's with the tip of his. Merlin breathes hard through his nostrils, grabs him by the elbow, pulls him close.

Arthur goes with it, stops thinking, because the kiss is soft and slow, and burns right through him.

Merlin bunches his shirt at the base, rakes his teeth across Arthur's chin. The gesture sends shivers down Arthur's spine.

They should think about this, consider who they are, the rules they abide by. But they don't. Arthur won't. He splays his hand across Merlin's flank, tilts his head back with his hand. He licks into his mouth, thumbs at his forehead in little soothing motions.

Merlin pulls down Arthur's joggers a notch, works them lower, past his hip. “You want to, right?” he says on a harsh breath. “You don't mind about the chain of command...”

“Fuck the chain of command.” In any other circumstance Arthur wouldn't have said that. He really believes in what the army and the army's rules stand for. But right now he can't think, he can't breathe, he can only want and do and feel.

Merlin kneels, pulls Arthur's joggers down to his knees, touches his mouth to Arthur's hip. Arthur shudders, a tremor that runs under his skin and lashes up his spine. Merlin trails his lips across Arthur's belly. It flutters, his abs rippling, and he can't stop the reaction anymore than he can stop the sob that gushes out of him.

With a palm on his upper thigh, Merlin mouths at Arthur, sucking lightly on the head until Arthur feels himself shed pre-come by the drop.

Merlin nudges his lips past the flare of Arthur's cock, wets it thoroughly.

Arthur inhales sharply, till his senses swim. He pulls Merlin to him by the hair, threads his fingers through it. His hips inch forward in little spasms, little jerks.

He doesn't want to fuck hard into Merlin's mouth, doesn't want to be rough. But Merlin takes him in deeper, slides his lips further down, sheathing Arthur in slick warmth that sends his senses spinning.

Merlin goes down on him until Arthur feels himself graze the back of his throat. Arthur groans. He's beyond sanity, body sweaty and hot, his cock pulsing in Merlin's mouth, and it's so perfect, he can't stop himself from reacting. He scrambles for Merlin's shoulder, tugs on his hair.

Merlin draws back, laps at the head of his cock. Finding the ridge and vein with his tongue, he nudges at it, sucks the slit.

Arthur's feels the muscles in his belly give, warmth softening him. He comes in threads Merlin licks and laps at.

Arthur helps him up, braces him when Merlin staggers into his arms, breathing hard against his neck.

Slowly, Arthur roves his mouth along the side of Merlin's throat, sucks on the tendon.

Merlin murmurs something, adds, "No marks. Leave no marks."

Arthur nods softly, his lips still brushing Merlin's skin. His hands slip under Merlin's shirt, find hot skin. He runs the tips of his fingers down the notches of Merlin's spine, one by one. He flattens his palm against the small of his back, skates it along Merlin's flank. Even as he does, he kisses Merlin again, hot and deep, draws Merlin's tongue in his mouth, suckles on his lips.

He slides his hand up and down Merlin's back, works it around his flank, lowers his jogging trousers and finds his cock.

Merlin breaks the kiss, gasps, dips his head and shakes it.

As Arthur curls his fingers around his cock, Merlin moans. It's deep and breathy, helpless.

Arthur presses his forehead against Merlin's, and backs him up against a tree. He can smell resin. It's heady and aromatic. Together with the scent of Merlin, it's sweet and sharp with a primal tang.

Merlin's already hard, must have been for some time, but when Arthur touches him, he stiffens some more, the head of his cock puffed and red and poking out of its hood. He wets Arthur's fingers with his pre-come.

"Come on," Arthur says, biting on Merlin's lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. He drags his palm down Merlin's length, twists, pulls hard.

Merlin mumbles against his lips, closes his eyes, shakes and trembles. His breath comes out staggered, fast, stopped low in the throat.

Arthur wants to hear more of that, because the sound takes his own breath away; scatters his thoughts till all that is left is longing and softness.

He circles the base of Merlin's prick with his fingers. He bites and licks at his neck and Merlin pushes into his fist, again and again in short shimmying jabs punctuated by raw little noises.

As the effect he's having on Merlin becomes more and more palpable, more and more obvious, Arthur's heart starts to race. He trails his tongue down Merlin's throat in small licks, little pinpricks of his teeth that make Merlin sob in short, warm bursts of air Arthur can taste on his lips.

For a few more moments, Arthur rubs Merlin's cock back and forth against his palm, causing Merlin to hiss and grit his teeth. His face is all red in places and then he takes on biting down his bottom lip. It looks as though he's doing it so he can hold on longer. But Arthur wants him to come, needs him to. "Let go, come on, let go."

Merlin grabs Arthur by the shoulder, hauls him by the shirt, and pushes him backwards so that he's the one ending up backed against the tree, face first.

The bark is rough, smells like moss, and catches under his palms till they burn. Merlin puts one hand on his hip, branding him with his body warmth, splays him wide. Arthur's face burns when he gets it, when he feels it. He sucks in a breath, sharp. It makes him ride the edge of some kind of heady delirium, drowns his thoughts into the pounding of his heart. He widens his stance.

Merlin rubs his cock back and forth along and around his hole. It's hot and hard, and makes Arthur want. It makes him feel the need for penetration, for fullness. He imagines it, can nearly feel the phantom dull pleasure of it. But Merlin only slides his cock up and down, the tip catching before it disengages.

Arthur feels the wet of Merlin's come as it smears the small of his back, the fleshy warmth of Merlin's lips at his nape as they trail from shoulder to shoulder, just above the hem of Arthur's shirt.

“I'm sorry for that one,” Merlin says, pulling up Arthur's bottoms. “Sorry.”

“Don't be,” Arthur says, tongue thick in his mouth as he has a hard time to come down from his sex haze. He wants it all back, that moment of frantic desire, of fevered wishing. He wants to turn around and touch Merlin, caress his face and cover it with kisses. He wishes he could lay him down and cover his body with his. He wishes for things that can't be, because of who they are, their relative positions. And even if he dared ask for more, more than was offered in that moment of blind need, there's no time for it because the night is nearly over. “It was fine, good.”

Light is spreading at the edge of the horizon, fading the blue of the night. They'll have to be on duty soon. Arthur shifts, feeling the drying come on his skin, and moves, so he can shake off the discomfort of it.

“It can't have been,” Merlin says, stepping back. Arthur hears him fiddle with his own clothes. “I was acting on instinct. It was too... too much. I should've asked, that was...”

“That was fine.” Arthur closes his eyes. He should tell Merlin that what he did was more than welcome, raw, and messy and intimate in a way Arthur wishes he could grasp again. He'd love to have the words to ask for a repeat performance, to tell Merlin that he loved what he did, what he was like. But he can't; finds himself tongue-tied and stiff of body. “I'd have said if it was otherwise.”

“Okay, all right.” Merlin breathes through his nostrils.

Arthur turns around and gives Merlin a long look, doesn't fail to take in how pink his face still is, how plump and chafed his lips are, how dewy his eyes. But then, he tears his gaze away, works his jaw, and tries to centre himself. He doesn't think he can find the core of him now; it has shifted. He's all perception now.

He can pick out the soft sounds of the night; the soughing of the wind on grass, the cawing of early birds, the whisper of the wind on his skin. Above all, he can sense Merlin's breathing pattern and his warmth even as he dances further and further away, a little dishevelled, clothes sitting wrong on him, ruffled with the flush of sex. “Let's get back to base.”

 

**** 

 

When Merlin wanders into the Ross Line offices, everything is in order. Elena is squinting at her computer screen, taking notes from time to time. Elyan is talking on the phone, tapping a pencil against the rim of his desk. Daegal is spraying his potted plant.

Arthur and Sergeant Major Kernow come out of the latter's office.

Merlin doesn't want to meet Arthur's eyes, not without experiencing feelings that are entirely inappropriate for the office and that Arthur won't probably welcome. But he can't help meeting his gaze when Arthur spears him with it—at least until Arthur draws it away. Then Merlin, too, drops his.

Before the situation can become awkward, Mckenna walks in. “I need to talk to you,” he tells Arthur and Merlin.

“Emrys, Pendragon,” Kernow says and his words make it easy to concentrate on nothing but the job.

Arthur and Merlin take Mckenna to another room. Mckenna paces, turns round, then says, “I shouldn't have done it.”

“You shouldn't have done what?” Arthur asks, moving his head in time with Mckenna's wanderings.

“I eavesdropped on Bed.”

Merlin has a bad feeling about this. “And what did you hear?”

“Bed's meeting his contact.”

“When?”

“Tonight, at the old guard house.”

 

**** 

 

They wait in the shadow, the perimeter fence shining in the moonlight. It's a long line that stretches as long as the eye can see and that's only interrupted by the guardhouse. The guardhouse itself is a squat, square building made of grey brickwork. There's a small gate by its side.

“Are they having us on?” Merlin wonders. They've been there for the better part of two hours and no one has come.

“Perhaps,” Arthur says, blowing air against his palms. “Let's stay some more and—”

A stooping figure, barely distinguishable in the dark, slinks past them in the distance, making for the guardhouse.

Merlin grabs Arthur's arm, drops his hand when Arthur turns his face and looks at him with a flare of the eyes. “There's someone there.”

“Yeah.” Arthur's eyes shine in the moonlight. “I know.”

Merlin swallows. “When do we break them up?”

Arthur squints in the dark. “Bedivere is sneaking someone in. Let's wait till the person's inside and then we haul them both in for questioning.”

Merlin nods.

The second man makes it past the fence by the guardhouse. He shakes the other person's hand, then they both hide in the shadow of the building. Heads bowed close, they start talking in such low tones they don't carry in spite of the silence surrounding them.

“Okay, let's go.” Arthur darts forward, making for the duo lurking by the perimeter wall.

Merlin starts after him. When they get close to their target, Merlin trains his gun on them.

Arthur says, “You're under arrest for criminal trespass.”

One pair of hands shoots up in the air.

 

****

 

They sit Bedivere and the trespasser behind a long table. Bedivere has his head down and his shoulders up. His companion has his lips clamped together. His face is pale, but he keeps having a jaw tick that tells Arthur he's not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

“Still not ready to tells us who you are?” Arthur asks.

The trespasser looks up at Arthur, mouth opening slightly, but says nothing.

Unfolding himself from his leaning position, Merlin pushes off the wall and says, “You do understand that if you don't talk we might be excused for thinking your trespassing an act of terrorism.”

“And”— Arthur finds himself compelled to make use of Merlin's excellent tactics.—“you do realise that under the Terrorism Act, we can hold you without charging you for up to seven days?”

The trespasser shoots upright. “I'm not a terrorist!”

“Then what are you?” Merlin asks. “Because from where I'm looking, you could be pretty much anything.”

The trespasser's throat works queasily. “I'm a journalist.” He sinks back into his chair. “I'm a bloody journalist!”

While Arthur hadn't really thought he was facing a terrorist of some kind, the news he's talking to a journalist does make him double-take. He hopes it doesn't show on his face. “You'll have to be more precise than that.”

“My name is Odin Sinclair,” the journalist says. “I work for The Telegraph.”

“And what were you doing trespassing in a military area, Mr Sinclair?” Merlin asks, tipping his eyebrow up.

“Following up a story.”

Arthur walks over to the table and slams his hand down on it. “Are you shitting us? You'll have to cough up or the charges you'll be facing won't be nice.”

“Is this some kind of military intimidation?” Odin cants his head. “Because I won't be taking that. I will write about this. This is abuse of power. I'll make you regret what you're doing to me!”

Before Arthur can tell himself to simmer down, Merlin acts. He takes the empty chair next to Sinclair and, fixing his eyes on him in a very in-your-face manner, says, “You can threaten us all you want, but the fact remains you were caught doing something highly illegal. Now you have two choices; you can face all the charges that will rain on you, or lend us a hand.”

Sinclair says nothing.

Merlin continues. “Is whatever you're writing worth a long spell in jail?”

Arthur fastens his gaze on Merlin. He's wearing a very no nonsense expression, mouth pressed together and eyes sparking challenge at Sinclair. He looks handsome and determined, and that's not something Arthur ought to be thinking about right now, but God forgive him, that's the realisation that crosses his mind. A wave of pure longing washes through him and it takes him a few seconds to reconnect to time and place, to remind himself he's running an interview. The moment he does, though, Arthur starts striking the hammer again. “Think about it, Sinclair. What you're risking. Talk to us and if you still want to write up that exposé about me, then you can.”

“Something's going on,” Sinclair says, his eyes narrowing. “Something is going on and that's why you're ready to bargain.”

“Don't strain our patience,” Merlin says. “Tell us what you know and we'll try not to throw you in a prison cell for the next five years of your life.”

“If I talk,” Sinclair says, the lines around his eyes deepening, “will you tell me what's going on?”

Arthur laughs. There's no other reaction he can have to this. When he stops, he says, “We don't bargain with civilians who've just committed a very serious offence. We don't bargain, full stop.”

Merlin pitches in. “You've nothing to gain from taking that line with us, Sinclair. Prison's not nice, especially for a rich, middle class bloke like you.”

That finally seems to sink in for Sinclair, who screws his face up in thought. At last, the man says, “I was following a lead Private Bedivere gave me.”

Arthur spares no time for Bedivere. He's one of their own and he'll face the consequences of what he's done sooner rather than later. They have him and therefore he can wait. Sinclair is another matter. “What lead?”

Sinclair starts talking, stops before more than a word is out, then reformulates. “I've been meaning to run a story about army cover-ups for a while.”

“Cover-ups?” Merlin repeats, frown lines forming on his forehead.

Sinclair leans forward in his seat, palm spread out to accompany his words. “Major accidents the army covered up. Collateral damage situations that were hushed up. Things like that.”

“And you were thinking to find examples of that here at Lisburn?” Arthur knows that the army isn't a perfect institution. It has its rotten apples like any other one on earth. That's why he's in SIB—to pluck them out so the corps can thrive. But men like Sinclair think the army's all bad, that they're all trigger-happy morons, at the beck and call of self-serving governments. And that's the kind of prejudice that sets Arthur's teeth on edge. “Among our men?”

“I don't think,” Sinclair says. “I know.”

“You''ll have to be more specific than that,” Merlin says, which is exactly the question Arthur would have asked, too.

“Bedivere supplied me with documentation that proves Private Jodrey was involved in a tragic accident two years ago.”

“What kind of accident and how does this fit with your investigation?”

“A terrible one your private escaped unscathed.”

“Geraint Jodrey?” Arthur's read his file and there was no mention of this. “Are you positive?”

“Yes.” Sinclair's eyes have the glint of certainty in them. “I checked the story with other sources, sources within the army and the government. There was a cover-up involved.”

Arthur slides his gaze onto Bedivere. “You could only have access to the same documentation we have. What did you give this man and how did you know about Jodrey?”

“Rumours from his mates in Afghanistan,” Bedivere says. “People who were there with him at the time, people who had family serving there. I told Mr Sinclair, and Mr Sinclair said he was interested in everything I could get my hands on. So I made copies of some documents and passed them on to him.”

Arthur doesn't ask what possessed Bedivere to do such a thing. He will, but not now. Now they need to find out what Sinclair knows and how it relates to Jodrey's death. “And what did Mr Sinclair”— Arthur's gaze falls on him.—“find out?”

“Private Jodrey caused the death of a fellow soldier and injured two civilians.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow at Arthur, licks his lips. “Are we talking about some kind of action casualties?”

Sinclair scoffs. “No. Private Jodrey killed someone while on ordinary duty.”

Arthur would really appreciate it if Sinclair stopped beating around the bush and spelt it all out. But he gets people like him, knows they need their moment of fame, so Arthur gives it to him. “What exactly are we talking about?”

“Jodrey was a late transfer to the Dorsets.” Sinclair takes a sip of water from the glass they put at his disposal. “He was in logistics before.”

“And what happened when he was in logistics?” Merlin asks, mouth thinning.

“He was a driver,” Sinclair explains. “His record wasn't spotless either; he'd been reported for lateness, shoddiness, and other minor misdemeanours.”

“This is a fine narrative,” Arthur says, jaw locking, “but I can look his record up any moment. In fact I did and what's in there is so minor I didn't even bat an eyelid when I saw it. What your fine tale doesn't do is tells us what you think you've got.”

“Proof he's responsible for a traffic accident,” Sinclair says. “He shouldn't have been on duty. He hadn't slept in three days, or so some of his fellow platoon members said. Probably had alcohol in him, too. But they let him drive a lorry from Herat to Camp Bastion in spite of that.”

“This isn't in his record,” Arthur says. He's read that over and over. “Do you have proof of this?”

“It's been expunged because he wasn't found guilty,” Sinclair says. “The fact that he's from a good military family might also have helped. I looked into it. I found witnesses, people who were there. More than one implies that Jodrey fell asleep while driving and caused the accident.”

“If there was proof he'd have been sentenced,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “If there were civilians injured, this would have gone to trial according to the laws of the country he was in.”

“And yet there's people who are convinced he was responsible.”

“Meaning there was no proof either way.” Arthur is no lawyer, but he knows enough of the law to be aware of that.

“Does it matter when there's suspicion of a cover-up?” Sinclair asks.

“Of course it does!” Arthur goes rigid. “You need factual proof before condemning someone.”

“Not in journalism,” Sinclair says. “Suspicion is enough.”

Arthur has no intention of debating that. It's a moral point and discussing ethics should be the last of their priorities. He stands, places both hands on his hips. “You'll give us everything you have on Geraint Jodrey. Every single scrap of information.”

“And if I do that,” Sinclair says. “You'll release me?”

“Yes.” Arthur bows his head in assent.

“And you'll drop the charges?”

“Lisburn base is an MOD site,” Arthur says. “You'll have to take it up with the CPS.”

Merlin goes to open the door. Before anybody can file out, Bedivere asks, “What about me?”

Arthur says, “There'll be a summary hearing and your superior officer will decide what to do with you.”

Merlin and Arthur leave the room. While Merlin goes to report to Kernow, Arthur places a call to his father. “I know you have pull with the Ministry of Defence,” he says. “I want Geraint Jodrey's unabridged file.”

 

***** 

Eyes aching from hours the glare of the screen, Merlin squeezes his nose. “It bears out.”

Arthur puts down his earphones. “Some of the witnesses Sinclair found do agree that Jodrey was responsible for the accident. I've just listened to four of Sinclair's contacts and they're of the same mind.”

“So there's plenty of people who think Jodrey wasn't that great of a soldier, that he took his duties lightly.”

“Yes.” Arthur links his hands together and leans forward. “Quite a few, including Bedivere.”

“So you think one of these people may have killed him?” Merlin has been able to think of little else since their interview with Sinclair. “That we've hit on the motive?”

Arthur works his jaw, rubs at his chin with his thumb. “Yes. That's what I think.”

Merlin reactivates the screen. “But none of the people from Sinclair's records or that are mentioned in the documents your father dug up for us are at the base. So even if they had motive they didn't have opportunity.”

“We'll have to dig deeper.” Arthur shakes his head. “Work harder to find out what happened. ”

Merlin sags against his chair, closes his eyes. “You're right, yeah.”

Arthur's shoes squeak as he walks. The scent of his aftershave wafts over to Merlin and hits him low in the gut, making him want with a hunger that starts deep inside him and gets to his brain. It's difficult to tamp down. But tamp it down he must, because Arthur doesn't seem to be on board with Merlin's desires. He hasn't mentioned the sex they had since they had it. Since it's been a week and there's no way the failure to address the subject can be an over sight after this long, that must mean he wants to avoid a repeat performance. Merlin knows he shouldn't talk about it, either. Merlin was too needy with him, too rough without any by-your-leaves. He must have spooked Arthur. If he has, he must live with the consequences.

Merlin's desk creaks as Arthur sits down. “Are you sure you're all right?”

  
[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/texasfandoodler/70429176/92022/92022_600.jpg)

Merlin's eyes snap open. “What?”

“I haven't asked in a while because—” Arthur's throat works and his cheeks go a shade pinker than his face. “But I should've. I should have asked how you were coping.”

“You mean—”

“This case must be particularly challenging for you and I haven't stopped and asked what it's doing to you.”

Merlin sits up straight. “I'm fine.”

Arthur huffs a sigh, looks down.

“No, really, I'm doing okay.” Merlin lets his gaze latch onto Arthur, trying to make it clear by virtue of it that he doesn't think Arthur's done anything wrong. “I did have a moment. When I woke up in hospital, I wasn't fine. But I'll always have those. I'll always experience self doubt.”

“I wish it could be different for you,” Arthur says.

“It can't be.” Merlin shrugs. “I can't erase the past. But I know how to live with it. How to manage.”

Arthur looks at his joint hands, kicks the desk panel behind him.“I don't want you to only manage.”

“I'm fine, Arthur.” Merlin wants to reach out, to cover Arthur's hand with his and tell him that he shouldn't worry about him. “If it makes you happy, I'll even go talk to the base's psychologist, but to be quite honest, you've been of more help to me than any shrink.”

Arthur pushes off the desk. “I just want you to say if you're not good or you're overworking yourself.”

“I'm not overworking myself,” Merlin says, making sure to get his body out of his slump.

“We're the last in here and your eyes are fairly bloodshot.”

“You don't look too good either, I'll have you know,” Merlin says, smiling.

Arthur dips his head, forks his hand through his hair. “Yeah. I'm no great catch.”

Merlin feels his face flush, says nothing because he can think of nothing appropriate.

“You should go home,” Arthur says, pushing off the desk. “You could use some sleep.”

Merlin nods, switches the computer off. When the screen has gone black, he stands. “You could too, you know.” Merlin puts his hands out and waves Arthur off when it looks like he's going to go all stoic on him. “I mean I realise the job's tough and you're up to it, but you should cut yourself some slack now and again.”

Arthur bobs his head up and down. “Yes, yes, you're right. I'll take your advice.”

“You will?” Merlin breaks into a grin. “That's good. Really good.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” Merlin mimics Arthur's nod. “Yes, it is.”

Arthur smiles at him, his eyes lingering on Merlin's face in a way that reminds Merlin of the other night, when Arthur's eyes shone a little like this, with a warmth that shifts something inside Merlin and nearly makes him forget caution. Arthur says, “Go ahead, get going. I'll lock up.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin feels the weight of the long day on his shoulders, but wouldn't mind staying on either. “I can help you.”

Arthur walks him to the door. “Just go.”

Merlin's on the threshold. He turns around, says, “Arthur.”

But Arthur's already turned around, so Merlin only says, “Good night,” and makes it back to his quarters.

 

**** 

 

The warden stands with his back to the wall, his hand on his baton.

Cenred King is ushered in by a second officer, who takes off his manacles and sits him behind the desk Merlin and Arthur are placed behind.

“Not you again!” Cenred says when he locks eyes with them.

“Cut it, King,” Arthur says, gesturing to Merlin to open the file. “This can be quick and painless or long and boring, take your pick.”

“I'll go for door number one,” King says, crossing his legs and placing his hand on top of his knee as if he were in a club booth.

Merlin turns the folder upside down and shows it to King. “Have you ever seen any of these people?”

King doesn't even look. “What?”

Arthur grunts his disapproval. “Just tell us if you've ever sold any of these people any drugs.”

King sighs, rolls his eyes, adjusts the collar of his jumper. He gives the photos a look, twists his mouth sideways, then he looks up and says, “No. I already told you. I don't know any of these fuckers.”

“These are different ones.”

“And you think I care?”

“No.” Merlin's lips push together. “Doing what you do, I think you care about nothing.”

“You're right.” Cenred juts his jaw out. “I don't give a shit.”

Arthur doesn't want to caution Merlin and doesn't need to, because Merlin only says, “One look. That's all we're asking.”

Cenred rolls his eyes but does as he's told. “No. Never seen any of them before.”

Outside the interrogation room, Merlin sags against the wall. “Shit, this means we have to start from scratch.”

“No.” Arthur won't consider that, refuses to think of it like that. “No. We just need to look at all the data we have. Now we know it's not any of the people directly involved with the accident. So we strike them out. That's progress.”

“You really think so?” Merlin asks, both of his eyebrows going up.

Arthur touches his hand to Merlin's shoulder. “Yes, yes I believe so.”

 

**** 

 

His weight supported by his hands and the balls of his feet, Merlin lowers his body flat against the ground. He draws a breath and raises himself again. When his arms are straight once more and all the breath is out of his lungs, Merlin prepares to start the process anew. He's halfway down when Elena bursts in.

“I should've knocked, shouldn't I?” she says, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Silly me, I always forget something.”

Merlin finishes the movement and then flips to the side, pretzeling himself in a sitting position. “Don't worry about the knocking thing, Elena.”

“I should've.” She shifts from side to side and makes a mess of her ponytail by running her hand through her hair. “I'm so sorry.”

“Never mind barging in,” Merlin says, ineffectually wiping at the knee of his trousers. “I suppose you must've come a-not knocking for a reason?”

“Oh yes.” Elena nods expansively. “I was in my quarters going over the paperwork Arthur gave me and I noticed something. It might be a coincidence, but it might not.”

Merlin leans against the back partition of his bed. “Slow down. What are you talking about?”

“You've got to see this,” Elena says. “Follow me.”

Elena's room is very much like Merlin's. It's the same shape and relative width. Even the bathroom lies in a mirror position. Merlin might have thought he hadn't changed quarters at all but for the mess Elena lives in. Her blankets are on the floor as are several folders and a few dirty laundry baskets. “What did you want to show me?”

She sits on her bed and picks her laptop up. “I was double-checking every name associated with the Geraint Jodrey case when I found two that match the our Lisburn personnel.”

Merlin sits next to her. “None of the people involved with the accident in Afghanistan are here on base.”

“No, no you're right.” Elena bites her lip, and her hand hovers over the touchpad.

“You thought you had something.” Merlin nudges her shoulder with his. “Tell me what it is and we can see whether you stumbled onto the right clue.”

Elena opens a file. It's the incident report from the Afghanistan deployment accident that Arthur's father got them. “This is the list of people involved in the accident Jodrey allegedly caused.”

“Mmm, allegedly.” Merlin grins. “You're getting so good at this job.”

“Oh shush.” Elena jabs his ribs with her elbow. “These are the names.” She taps the screen. “Harris and Banes.”

“Those are pretty common,” Merlin says, willing himself not to feel excited about this piece of news while they still have so little to go on. “Can you show me the personnel records for the Harris and Banes we have here at the base?”

“Yes, of course?” Elena says, logging in into the base's personnel database. “There is Banes.”

Banes has a square jaw and a somewhat empty stare; his buzz cut looks a little botched. Harris has shoulder length brown hair and blue doe eyes that give her a vulnerable look. “I've got nothing on him. But I think I've seen her somewhere before.”

“She's with the 1st Battalion Royal Scots,” Elena says. “We pass their barracks every day to get to Ross Line.”

“Maybe it's that.”

“Do I tell Arthur?” She gnaws her lower lips “Or am I just catching at straws here?”

“It might be something. It might be nothing,” he says, smiling at Elena. “But you did right in pointing this out.”

Elena jumps upright, nearly sending her laptop flying. “Let's go tell him, then.”

 

***** 

“No, Private, Corporal Emrys isn't here,” Arthur tells the anxious Private on the other end of the line. “But I can tell him you've called.”

“It's about Amfortas,” the Private says in a pleading tone.

“Amfortas?”

Elyan mouths at Arthur, “The Cumberlands' mascot.”

Arthur places the receiver against his chest, makes a face, mimes, “What should I say?”

Elyan sips from his coffee mug, then says, “Merlin's actually gone looking into the thing.”

Arthur puts his mouth against the receiver. “Corporal Emrys is looking into your case right now.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” the Private says. “You don't know what a comfort knowing that is.”

No sooner has the call ended, than Elena and Merlin appear.

 

****

 

Merlin minimises the window, catches Arthur and Elena's expectant gazes. “Kara Harris, 1st Battalion Royal Scots, sister to Private Dominic Harris, CLR, deceased. He was the one casualty of the accident Geraint Jodrey was involved in.”

“We're hauling her in for questioning,” says Arthur, his mouth pinched, his cheeks hollowing.

The 1st Royal Scots is parading four abreast, with regimental banners snapping in the breeze. They're in full uniform, moving in perfect unison. They wheel to the right, march onwards. Their sergeant paces alongside them, muttering instructions, "Keep in step and don't bounce. Heels in.”

Arthur and Merlin approach the sergeant. “We need to talk to one of yours,” Arthur says.

“SIB?” The Sergeant falls out of step with the battalion. “None of my boys and girls have done anything wrong.”

“Let's not make this difficult, Sergeant.”

The Sergeant looks reluctant but after a moment of consideration nods.

Kara Harris is dwarfed by the interrogation room. Her arms look frail as they stretch on the table, her regulation watch much bigger than her wrist. Her round face goes grey as her eyes dart around the room, as if looking for traps.

Merlin's stomach almost plunges when he has to ask the first question. “Your brother died in an accident two years ago, didn't he?”

“Yes,” Kara says, without volunteering any more information.

“Do you know Geraint Jodrey?” Arthur asks, folding his arms.

“I know him by name,” Kara says, inclining her head a fraction of an inch. “Of course I do.”

“But you've never met him?” Merlin asks, trying to make use of the only opening Kara has given him. “You've only heard him mentioned but never seen him in the flesh?

“I know he's here on base,” she says. “But I've never met him.”

“Why?” Arthur asks, his shoulders going up the moment his question is volleyed out. “He was the one who drove the lorry your brother was on off the road. If it was me, I'd have wanted to have a good look at him.”

“I had no intention of meeting him.” Kara doesn't move. No muscle twitches. She doesn't even go rigid. She barely blinks. “Why should I?”

“Curiosity? Animosity? Peace-making?” Merlin lists the possible reasons off the top of his head. He's ready to think of a few more as long as that gets Kara talking.

“I felt none of these things.”

“But you were aware he was here at Lisburn,” Arthur says.

“Yes.”

“And you knew he's recently died?”

“News travels fast on base.”

Merlin decides to surprise her with a different kind of question. “What did you feel when you learnt he was dead?”

She doesn't bat an eyelash. If anything, her face goes stony. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Why didn't you ask for a transfer?” Arthur comes at her with a new questioning angle. “You could have worked as far away from him as you wished.”

“Why should I have?” Kara arches an eyebrow. “I'm fine here.”

“It mustn't be pleasant to be so close to the man who killed your brother.”

Kara starts, whimpers, but otherwise says nothing.

Arthur shakes his head no and Merlin gets it. He, too, wants to see what Kara's next move is going to be.

She says, “I won't say that it is. But I'm good where I am.”

Merlin isn't quite clear on this. “Why?”

“Because the Royal Scots are a fine regiment and my fellow soldiers are good people — my brothers and sisters.”

Merlin can see how that answer makes sense. He can sympathise. You form bonds in the army, bonds that go deep really quickly. Maybe Kara has made so many friends among her fellow soldiers, she doesn't want to give up her post. Not even because of Jodrey's presence. Still, the coincidence is quite staggering. “Did you ever discuss Geraint Jodrey with them?”

“No,” Kara says.

“Why not, if they're your brothers and sisters?”

“I didn't want to burden them with my troubles.”

“Yet you said you felt nothing when he died,” Merlin says, picking at the holes in her narrative. “So it wasn't that big of a deal to you. In which case, why didn't you tell them?”

“Because this was about me.”

Arthur steps in. “Where were you on the 15th of January from 06.00 to 12.00?”

Kara tilts her head. “The 15th?”

“Yes.”

“Completing a field exercise with my battalion.”

Merlin cranes his head so he can look at Arthur, who's standing behind him.

Arthur's mouth flattens in a a tense line. “What about the day before?”

“With my fellow soldiers at barracks,” says Kara. “We turned in early so we could be at our best for the field exercise.”

Merlin's shoulders slump. “Could you give us the name of any person who can corroborate your statement?”

“Of course I can,” Kara says.

 

~ ~

They find Private de Maris in the shooting range. Barring the Conducting Officer, she's the last one in for the day.

Private de Maris pulls the bolt back and sticks her finger in the magazine well. “I told you. She sleeps in the berth next to mine.”

“And you're sure she didn't leave it?” Arthur says.

“I'm a light sleeper, yes,” Private de Maris tells them as she dismantles her rifle.

“And she definitely was with you at all times during the field exercise?” Merlin asks.

Private de Maris scatterers the disassembled components on the table surface before her. “Yes. Most definitely.”

Arthur sidles from side to side, hands on hips. “And you couldn't see the Dorsets during your own field exercise?”

“Not a glimpse.” The private wipes the ejector with a paper towel. “We weren't even in the same area.”

“Well,” Arthur says. “Thank you for your time, Private.”

Fingers covered in grease, the private salutes.

 

****

 

Arthur smiles when Merlin comes into the pub. He makes way for him in the booth.

Merlin marches over, slides in the seat opposite Arthur's.

Arthur drops his hands to the table.

Merlin picks up the salt shaker. “So what do you think of the case?”

“We still need to question Bedivere again,” says Arthur, swiping crumbs off the table top. “He might've had something to do with Jodrey's death.”

“What would have been his motive?”

Arthur spreads his hands apart. “I haven't the foggiest.”

“I don't think it was Eira.” Merlin's face clouds over.

Arthur knows it's because he believed Eira Williams, because he thinks she was honest. Arthur would like to still have the ability to have these kinds of instincts about people. But he's suspicious of everyone until proven wrong. 

“It could have been, but I don't think she was the one responsible,” Merlin says.

“It can't have been Kara Harris, either.” Arthur has been trying to figure out how it she could've put her hands on the canteen when she was seen elsewhere, but hasn't been able to. “Unless she can be in two places at once.”

Elbows on the table, Merlin rakes both hands through his hair. “So we have to start from scratch, again?”

“Yes.” Kernow won't be happy about it but that's the truth of it. “Yes.”

“I suppose we'll just have to look at it in a fresh way.” Merlin gives him a half smile that knocks something loose inside Arthur. “I know we can do it, Arthur. We're not that bad of a team you and I.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, feeling now's the time to start this discussion. “We need to talk.”

Merlin goes rigid. “You're regretting it. Look, if you want me to ask for a transfer I'd get it—”

Arthur's about to interrupt Merlin when a group of boys and girls walks in, hands on each other's waists or around each other's shoulders. Merlin's eyes flare and his mouth opens.

“What?” Arthur asks. “What's going on?”

Merlin smacks his palm across his forehead. “Of course. That's who she is.”

Arthur shakes his head.“She who?”

“Kara,” Merlin says, raking up the Jeep's keys and sticking them in his pockets. “We need to get back to base.”

The Dorsets' barracks is a low building on the south side of the base's perimeter. It houses many dorms, but the one they need is close to the entrance. They find Mordred Jones in his sleeping unit, his back to the door. He's tucking the ends of the sheet around the corners of his mattress, patting the fabric down so creases won't show.

“Are you Kara Harris' boyfriend, Mordred?” Arthur asks, stepping in.

Mordred drops his pillow, stands to attention. “Kara?”

“Yes,” Merlin continues, walking towards Mordred. “Kara. You know, brown-haired girl, blue eyes. She's a private in the Royal Scots.”

“I've seen Kara around from time to time,” Mordred says, his face settling into a pleasant mask that's too tight at the edges.

“I saw you with her myself,” Merlin continues. “Right after starting on the investigation into your mate's death. At the Rising Sun in Belfast.”

“We do hang out.” Mordred cocks his head to the side in a sign of acquiescence. “She's an all right girl.”

“Strange,” Arthur says. “Bedivere says she's your girlfriend.”

“He must have misinterpreted,” Mordred says, grimacing.

“Doesn't seem like it.” Merlin places both hands on his hips. “Because a lot of your mates also think you're with her.”

“So what?”

“So maybe you acted on her behalf.”

“I don't follow.” Mordred smiles, but the smile is saggy at the sides, watered down by the concern in his gaze.

“Someone killed Jodrey,” Arthur points out.

“Riley did,” Mordred says. “By accident.”

Merlin tuts. “That's what it looked like.”

“Ranulf shot Jodrey.” Mordred takes a step back. “The doctors weren't able to save him.”

“True,” Arthur says. “What's also true is that Riley was up to the gills in drugs.”

“Drugs used to mind control,” Merlin says.

“That's absurd,” Mordred snaps.

“Not really.” Merlin looks at Arthur and Arthur gives him a go-ahead gesture. Now's the time to put pressure on Mordred Jones. “He tested positive. So really, by the time Riley was under its influence, it would have been child's play to convince him to shoot.”

“No.” Mordred jerks his head to the side in a firm motion of denial.

“A word,” Merlin says. “Shoot. And Riley would have shot. Would've forgotten about being ordered to, too. By the time we asked him, his memory was already so jumbled by the drugs in his system that he couldn't remember exactly what had gone down, barring the fact he'd downed someone.”

“This is science fiction,” Mordred says, but the mask has fallen. His face has curled around a sneer. His eyes are now wide and full of malice. “How would it have worked out?”

“Riley had no will of his own,” says Merlin. “That's how.”

Mordred's face smooths out again. “You have no proof this ever happened.”

“You were running alongside him. Had a bet with him, remember?”

Mordred starts smirking. “I see that as proof I was close to him. Nothing else.”

Arthur knows they need to pin Mordred down, to face him with his crime. “I'm sure Mr King will be quick to confirm he sold you Scopolamine.”

Mordred laughs. “You'll find that no such thing will happen.”

The wording is tell-tale and Merlin reacts on it on that faster than Arthur does. “No, you're right,” he says. “He won't know who you are.”

“No.” Mordred nods. “He won't.”

“But he'll recognise Kara.” Merlin doesn't say it as though he's just scored a point, but with bitterness, regret. “Won't he?”

In a blur, Mordred grabs a gun from an open drawer, aims it at Merlin and takes the safety off. “Keep Kara out of this.”

Arthur doesn't know how Mordred managed not to return the gun he's wielding to the armoury, but the fact he has it at all drives a chill down his spine. This man is more than capable of killing. “Put that gun down, Mordred,” Arthur says, not knowing how he should reason with him, but understanding that he must or Merlin will die. “Put it down.”

“Why should I?” Mordred's eyebrow ticks upwards as he looks out of the corner of his eye at Arthur. His hands, though, don't waver; his aim on Merlin is steady. “You want to bring Kara down.”

“We don't want to do any such thing,” Merlin says, without otherwise moving.

Mordred's finger pulls the trigger a notch. “No? Then why are you here?”

Arthur can't reply. He needs to get his hands on the gun he was given to make this arrest. Getting to it without Mordred noticing won't be so easy.

Merlin thankfully keeps Mordred busy. “To take you in for questioning.”

“You've already decided I'm a murderer,” Mordred says, shifting on his feet, without moving his sights from Merlin. “You'll find a way to involve her too.”

“Why don't you clear up what happened, then?” Merlin says.

“Kara isn't guilty of anything,” Mordred says, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Arthur slowly reaches behind his back, feeling for his holster.

“Then tell us how she's innocent.” Merlin shifts a fraction.

Mordred keeps him in his sights, the gun's barrel following on Merlin's trail. “She's the victim in all of this.”

“Because Jodrey caused the accident that killed her brother?” Merlin asks, covering the noise Arthur's making to try and lift the holster's flap.

“Jodrey knew he was not fit to drive that convoy,” Mordred says. “All the soldiers that survived the accident said so.”

Arthur has almost lifted the gun out of its holster.

“That's why Kara wanted him dead?” Merlin says, balancing his weight on his other foot.

Mordred breathes hard, tracks him with his gun. “Kara is innocent.”

“She didn't coerce Riley to shoot, no,” Merlin says, “but she bought the drugs. The plan was hers.”

But for an inch, the gun has nearly come free. Arthur has it. He almost has it. He just hopes Mordred won't do anything stupid, won't harm Merlin. At the moment, it looks like he might. Merlin is in his line of fire and Mordred himself has started shaking and perspiring. He looks perfectly volatile and Merlin's his target.

They're all skating a fine line here, Christ. If Merlin says the wrong thing, if Mordred gets too jumpy, if Arthur doesn't stop this in time and disarm Mordred, then this could go to shit quite fast.

“She didn't act on it, though,” Mordred says, eyes flaring. “I acted before she ever could. She didn't even know I'd do it.”

“So she organised it but didn't do it,” Merlin says, putting up both hands in a placating gesture.

“Yes!” Mordred says, wiping at his nose with his arm while still holding the gun trained at Merlin. “When she learnt he was here, she was very upset. At first I tried to dissuade her, but I could see she was right. Jodrey wasn't meant to be a soldier. He was flighty, got easily distracted. Drank before missions. Stole out to visit girls he'd dump by morning. Privileged idiot git.”

Merlin tilts his head.“So you decided he needed to die.” 

Mordred licks his lips. “No. I didn't want to kill him. I wanted him gone. Out of the army. I dug up some incriminating stuff, thanks to friends of Kara's brother. I let Bedivere find it. He doesn't know it was me. But I was the one who made the documents fall into his lap.”

“But it didn't work out,” Merlin asks. “Did it?”

Arthur just needs to bring his gun round, get Mordred to lose his weapon. He only needs to minimise all movement so Mordred won't see.

“No, it didn't work out,” Mordred says, inhaling sharply. “It didn't happen fast enough.”

“Because Kara had already brought the drugs then,” Merlin continues for Mordred. “She knew how she could use them. She meant to persuade someone to kill Jodrey during a joint exercise. There's always plenty of those. The Dorsets would come across the Royal Scots at one point. Someone without a motive would kill Jodrey and it would in no way be connected to her. And then she'd have the perfect murder.”

“But she didn't get to do it,” Mordred says. “You can't put someone to trial for their intentions.”

“No.” Merlin says. “You took it all upon your shoulders.”

“Yes.” Mordred bobs his head twice. “I put the drug mixture in my canteen, swapped it with Riley's before the exercise. I did it all myself.” Mordred tears up. “I'd do anything for Kara.”

“You must be very much in love,” Merlin tells him, reaching his hand out, palm flat.

Mordred doesn't react as he previously has — by making sure Merlin is a viable target. He nods instead, focusing more on what Merlin's saying than on what he's doing. “Yes. Yes, I am. But then again, what would you know about it?”

“I know some,” Merlin says, causing Arthur to pay attention to his words more than to his diversion attempt. “I'd like to find out if it's the real thing or not, so why don't you lower your gun?”

Mordred looks down, sucks in a breath.

Arthur has his own gun in his hands, but he stills. Maybe Merlin can talk Mordred down. Maybe, just, maybe, this can end well.

“You will court-martial me.”

“You'll have a defence lawyer,” Merlin says, gesturing for the gun. “You can plead your case. You don't need to make it worse now.”

Mordred lowers the gun.

A soldier walks by the dorms door, stops in his tracks; his eyes widen at sight of Mordred. They hear the sound of his soles thudding along the corridor as he takes it at a run.

The sun from the window glancing off the muzzle, Mordred jerks his weapon back up.

The moment Mordred's fingers curl around the trigger is the instant Arthur whips his gun round. He aims, but Merlin's half in the way. Arthur hears the shot ricochet, watches Merlin go down and fires almost simultaneously.

With a torsion of his body, Mordred drops the gun. Blood stains his sleeve; it blooms dark on khaki.

Arthur rushes for Merlin. He's sure he's not hit him himself; he aimed for God's sake, but Mordred may have carved a bloody hole into him.

Merlin, however, gets his legs under him and pushes up, taking his handcuffs from the back of his belt loop. He kicks Mordred's gun away, forces Mordred's arms behind his back, and manacles him. “You're under arrest, soldier.”

 

**** 

 

“And so Jones did it for love,” Sergeant Major Kernow says as he looks at the portrait on his desk. “It makes sense.”

“Yes, in a way it does.” While Merlin understands part of Mordred's thought process, he can't say he can make sense of all of it. “He wanted to pre-empt her so she couldn't be accused of murder.”

“She bought the drugs with intent to use them,” Arthur says, massaging his temple. “That's surely something that can be pinned on her.”

“That's a minor offence in the grand scheme of things,” Kernow says. “And it will be up to her commanding officer to decide what to do with her.” Kernow takes in a lungful. “As for her significant other, he's in big trouble.”

Merlin can't help but feeling wrong footed about this. There is something about Mordred, perhaps the way he really was guided by love, that stops Merlin from writing him off as a cold-blooded murderer, though that's what he is. “We're gathering more proof,” Merlin says, “but he drew a gun on us and there's witnesses for that, and a confession, so...”

Elena enters the room right that moment. She salutes and, at Kernow's command, she relays her news. “I talked to King and he confirms selling Scopolamine and other drugs to Kara Harris.”

“I think it's safe to say,” says Kernow, standing, “that we have our case.”  
“Indeed we do.” Arthur says, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Though we'll have to come up with a charge for Riley. He factually killed Jodrey but wasn't in his right mind.”

“Surely, they can't have him down for manslaughter when he wasn't responsible for what he did,” says Elena, her eyes wide with outrage.

“We'll see what his defence team will come up with,” says Kernow, turning his swivel chair around so he's not facing them. “What the Judge Advocate General will decide. It's not up to us.”

Elena nods, though her nostrils flare. Arthur knows better than to comment. Merlin ducks his head, but he too looks like he might speak up. In fact he clears his throat. “Sir.”

“Don't worry, Emrys, there'll be medical reports,” says Kernow, his arm coming up so he can put fingers to his temple. “As well as your own, which I suggest you get off your arses to write.”

“Sir..”

“Now.” Kernow turns his chair around and fires them a stern glance. “You're all dismissed.”

Arthur and Merlin rise to their feet. With Elena, they salute. “Sir!”

Before Merlin's quite made the door, Kernow turns his chair around and says, “And Emrys, you can change into plain-clothes.”

Merlin stops dead in his tracks and a smile blooms on his face. “Does this mean I'm a full member of your team now?”

“Yes, Sergeant Emrys,” Kernow says, the edge of his lips turning up into something that resembles a smile, though it isn't quite. “That's what it means. From now on, you're a full-time investigator.”

Elena hugs him and the pat Arthur gives him nearly knocks him feet.

Merlin smiles, returns the hug, and shoves at Arthur, feeling lighter than he has in a long time. He thinks, _Yes, I can start clean here._

 

**** 

 

Arthur watches Merlin go down the stairs, straightens out of his leaning position, and walks over to him. “I was looking for you. You didn't turn up for work”—Arthur searches the ground —“and I thought something was up.”

Merlin sidles from side to side, points backwards. “I had a visit scheduled with the base psychologist.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, tipping his head down. “Was it... was it helpful?”

“Yes, very,” Merlin says, rubbing the side of his nose with the keys to one of the Jeeps. “She says my reactions to what I went through are not incompatible with statistics and that every time I have a problem I should go talk to her.”

“Mmm.” Arthur doesn't know what to say. Give him a gun to strip or a case to solve and he'll be good on that. With this—not so much. “That's what you should do then, if it helps.”

“She says the case was tough, too,” Merlin says. “And being stressed about it is understandable.”

“Yeah, the case was...” Arthur has thought about it and thought about it. The worst was talking to Jodrey's family, explaining to them what had happened and how. “Yes.”

“Indeed.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, taking a step so he's closer to him. “What you said to Mordred... Was it true?”

Arthur can see how Merlin's searching his memory for a hint as to what Arthur's referring to; his eyes are roving, but they don't look as though they're taking in anything. When he remembers his head snaps up. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, it was true.”

Two soldiers saunter past, chatting and laughing about the leave they're going to get. Arthur puts space between himself and Merlin. He coughs into his fist, raises his head and levels his eyes with Merlin's. “I don't care if it makes me a hypocrite. I want to break the rules.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Merlin kisses Arthur softly, returns the kiss with his tongue the moment Arthur opens his mouth for him. Merlin's muscles shift under his uniform; his body is warm, feels strong. Arthur wants to taste that strength, to sense it with his hands, with the whole of his body. He pulls Merlin flush against him, skates his hands up his back and under the top of his uniform shirt until he can feel Merlin's skin flex under his palms.

They lie down, stretch side by side. Merlin opens the button of Arthur's trousers, pulls down the zip. Arthur helps Merlin's with his bottoms. As they fiddle with belts and fabric, hands touching skin: the hardness of bone, the yield of flesh, they continue to kiss. When they stop, mouths redder and fatter, they chuck off their trousers. Merlin moves away from the bed and pulls down his boxers. By the time he returns to it, Arthur is naked.

Merlin puts his hands on Arthur's side, on his neck, kisses him deeply. He prepares Arthur with fingers and lube while Arthur holds himself open. Merlin moves on top of him, gives him a smile marred by concentration lines, enters him on the second try.

They both gasp. Merlin opens his mouth, frowns. Arthur reaches up and sucks on his upper lip. When Merlin moves on top of him, Arthur guides him forward with his hands curled around his arse. The muscle leaps under his hands.

With each thrust, Merlin goes further into him, but Arthur doesn't stop urging him forward, wanting more, from needing it to be harder, faster. Every time Merlin angles himself right, Arthur feels it as a sudden shock of pleasure that starts with warmth and ends like a little static charge.

Breathless, energised, Arthur moves his lips across Merlin's cheek. His lips mouth the hollow of Merlin's throat, lick at the sweat that has given a shine to his skin. His hands hold Merlin's back, feel the ripple at the small of it, flare outwards, trying for purchase, cling to his face. He curls his legs around Merlin's waist, roving his mouth along his jaw.

Merlin goes faster and faster, until Arthur is borne on by the motion. As he moves—his thrusts sharper, less accurate—he lets out a series of small sounds, sighs, and muffled sobs.

His muscles tighten and his body goes bowstring taut, as if it's about to snap. He surges into Arthur one last time before his mouth slackens. Hair plastered to his skull, expression dazed, he pants on top of Arthur, before landing next to him on the mattress.

When he's partly recovered, he fists Arthur with his hand, until Arthur covers it with his own and starts a rhythm of long slow pulls.

Breath ripped from his lungs, Arthur comes, his hand slowing and resting on top of Merlin till his body finishes riding the high. 

 

***** 

 

The dog jumps out of the Jeep the moment Merlin opens the door and waits for him to fasten its leash. “You're a very good boy, aren't you?” Merlin says, ruffling the dog's fur.

  
[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/texasfandoodler/70429176/94769/94769_600.jpg)

He finds Private Maccance in the kennels, sweeping his broom from one side of an empty area to the other.

Merlin coughs into his fist, but it's the dog that gives them away first. It thumps its tail hard on the ground and barks sharply, once and then again.

Private Maccance looks up with a snap of his head. He drops the broom, rushes forwards and crouches. “Amfortas, you're back!”

Merlin smiles on as Private Maccance rubs Amfortas' back and chest. “I see you're glad to have him back.”

Still petting Amfortas, Private Maccance says, “Thank you, sir. How did you find him?”

“It wasn't that hard.” The process was in fact quite simple. “Not that many people would have an interest in stealing a mascot.”

“Whoever did this has no heart,” Private Maccance says. “Amfortas has his habits and is used to his trainers. Alone, he must have been very afraid.”

“I doubt he'd have been scared. He was taken as a practical joke,” Merlin says. “The guys of the Royal Irish thought taking your mascot would make a good prank.”

“A prank!” Private Maccance pushes to his feet. “A prank! This is much worse than a prank, sir. Amfortas was taken against his will and—”

“He was treated quite well.” In fact, when Merlin found him, Amfortas was muzzle deep in a bowlful of food. His kidnappers had even been sorry to part with the dog. “Of course the boys from the Royal Irish who did this will get a fat reprimand.”

“They should apologise.”

Merlin winces. “They should. And I'll try and talk them into it, but if they don't...” Merlin raises an eyebrow. “I don't want any of the 5th Cumberlands to cause a ruckus. No getting back at them, got it?”

“No, sir, promise.” Private Maccance puts on a smile and nods. “We'll behave.”

“Good,” Merlin says, patting the dog on the head. “Because I don't want to have to stage a come- back.”

“No, sir,” Maccance answers, his smile becoming less formal and more akin to a shy grin. “You won't have to.”

Merlin nods, turns to go. He's nearly out of the kennel, when Maccance says, “Thank you for helping, sir.”

Merlin pivots and, before letting himself out of the building, says, “That's what SIB is for, Private. Investigating Crimes.”

 

The End

“When?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Red Caps](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431279) by [texasfandoodler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/texasfandoodler/pseuds/texasfandoodler)




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